A Hyperbola of Reality
by etcetera-cat
Summary: There's an evil mage doing what evil mages do best, and Valdemar's only hope is the newest Chosen; a man named Michael who doesn't speak any known tongue, and who's relationship with his Companion seems to consists mainly of mutual injury. Horse turds.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Original characters, the plot line and the general outbreaks of _strange_ belong to etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** This would be the chaptered 'fic inspired by the one shot _Fish Out of Water_, which was written to poke fun at the clichés of "modern person fallen into Valdemar" 'fics. To an extent, this 'fic is also heading in that direction, but the plot that bit me is rather big, complex and at least semi-serious. Gosh.

**Chapter One.**

**_Giff tries to do some explaining – I was due to start my surgical rotation – A diplomatic incident in progress – Kit is not impressed_**

It was the silence that was unnerving, Giff decided. Uneasily, the young Companion shot a covert glance at his new Chosen through the glazed door that led from his Chosen's current room to one of the semi-private gardens that belonged to the Healer's Collegium.

Michael— as that strange name was what Giff's Chosen was apparently known by— was sitting on the narrow single bed that comprised a third of the room's furniture (a wardrobe and a bedside table completed the set), his back was ramrod straight and pressed hard against the white plastered wall that the head of the bed was pushed against and his arms were crossed over his chest.

Oh, and he was _fuming_.

That last, Giff knew from a fact; he'd already been subjected to two impassioned and highly vocal shouting sessions. The Companion had only actually _understood_ Michael's words the second time around, as the young man had (probably unconsciously) echoed every single one of his words in very short range Mindspeech. Giff had already figured out that his new Chosen was somewhat less than pleased, however. The words he spoke may be unintelligible sounds, and the language completely alien, but the tone of voice he used— as well as his gestures and facial expressions— spoke volumes about his current mood.

Giff eyed Michael cautiously once more. _Eloquent and unmistakable volumes._ He decided unhappily.

If that wasn't bad enough— although having one's Chosen refusing to communicate with you in any way, or even _accept_ the Choosing was most certainly bad enough— Giff had also had the dubious honour of being reamed out by the Groveborn, Queen's Own, Queen, Regin; the Queen's Companion, as well as assorted other Companions (those who had Mage-Gifted Chosen), a selection of the ranking faculty of the Mage's Collegium, the senior members of the Healer's Circle, and what felt like every single ranking diplomatic envoy, their entire retinue _and_ quite possibly their pet _dogs_ as well.

In fact, the Bardic Circle were the only ones who hadn't yet used Giff as a set of verbal pells for the better part of a candle mark. _That _was because fully four fifths of the Haven-residing population of Bardic Collegium were feverishly documenting everything that was happening and beginning work on a score of new songs. The remaining fifth were scurrying about the Palace and Collegia libraries like ants; searching for any kind of information about events similar to the ones that Giff had precipitated.

Giff wasn't entirely sure which was worse; being shouted at by absolutely everyone, or having the fact that he was being shouted at by absolutely everyone set to a jaunty tune and sung all over the Kingdom.

A moment's consideration. _This silence is worse._

The young Companion paused for a moment, his posture betraying his uncertainty, and weighed up the pros and cons of stepping sideways, so that he occupied the doorway and window that comprised a fair portion of the exterior wall of the room. The main plus point was that Michael would be able to see him; know that he was there…

That was also, unfortunately, the main negative point. Giff was more than a little certain that showing as much as one hair from his mane to Michael would trigger off another incomprehensible shouting fit.

Well, he supposed that he'd have to get it over and done with at some point. Giff swallowed and sidled the few steps required to give him a clear view into Michael's room.

Michael's eyes flickered towards the door at the moment, but his set expression didn't change; nor did his defensively hostile posture.

Giff flattened his ears, aware that the worried expression he'd been wearing for most of the day appeared to be setting up a permanent residence.

_:Michael?_: Giff tried, hesitantly. The single word bounced silently off of the impenetrable mental shields that Giff's Chosen didn't even appear to know that he _had_. Giff sighed, his breath misting briefly over the cool surface of the glass, before vanishing.

Michael turned his head slightly and narrowed his eyes as he focused his attention on Giff. As Giff had already noticed; the young man did _not_ look happy. _"You!"_ The… word?... was uttered in a low voice, but it was full of emotion.

On the basis that any kind of communication was a _good_ thing, Giff cautiously flicked one ear upright and nosed at the window, until it swung open; a Collegium full of Artificers and their apprentices made for any number of Companion (and other non-human) friendly devices.

Michael jabbed one finger in Giff's direction, his eyebrows scrunching downwards as his expression mutated into full anger. _"You! What the bloody Hell are you doing, you're a damn horse, stop acting intelligent!"_

Giff quickly revised his opinion on communicating being a good thing. His Chosen (although, he wasn't, _technically_, yet his Chosen, as Michael hadn't actually acknowledged the bond) was shouting in his alien language again.

"_Why are you looking at me? What the Hell is going on— is this all some fucked up dream and I'm really lying on the break room floor giggling because Ralph finally went through with his threat to spike the coffee with methadone?"_

His alien language that Giff didn't understand a _word_ of.

"_I was due to start my surgical rotation!"_

Giff stared at Michael in complete incomprehension. _Maybe if I let him wear himself out he'll lower his shield enough so I can talk to him?_ Giff wondered vaguely.

Michael's face was gradually turning more red, in time with the fact that his voice was getting louder the longer he spoke— shouted, really— and he was waving his arms around again.

"—_supposed to be assisting in a triple bypass, not sitting in some damn room in some half baked set piece from a Renaissance Fair, being stared at by a bloody great big ugly horse!"_

He waved his arms around a lot, really.

"_Stop staring at me you bloody thing!"_

Giff barely had time to register that Michael was holding something in one of his hands, before the plain wooden beaker, still half full of water, smacked him solidly between the eyes. Uttering a pained squeal Giff jumped backwards, water dripping down his nose and making him blink furiously as it got in his eyes.

The hollow bouncing sound the beaker made as it hit the stone floor was lost under the sound of the wooden door leading to the corridor being flung open, and the pair of guards that had been stationed _in _the corridor, clattering into the room, hands firmly on their sword pommels.

Michael uttered an undignified yelp of his own and jumped sideways, before staring up at the guards with a shocked expression. _"You have _costumes_ as well?"_

Giff, finally having cleared his eyes, half wondered what his Chosen had just said— it sounded like a question of some sort— but was more concerned with the two guardsmen. Members of the Valdemaran guard took exception to people who injured Companions in a way that was only slightly less intense than the way Heralds themselves reacted, and Giff really wasn't sure that Gillan and the Lord Marshal had managed to convince the guards that Michael _was_ Chosen.

Before either of the guards took it upon himself to lacerate Michael, Giff shot forwards and stuck his head through the window again, uttering a loud snort as he did.

One guard kept his attention firmly on Michael; who had now squeezed himself up into a corner of the bed and was staring at the guardsman's half drawn sword with the kind of expression Giff more usually associated with rabbits on the end of a stoop by the Tayledras Ambassador's overly large bond-eagle. The second guard eyed Giff up and down, his attention focusing on the way the Companion's forelock was damply plastered to his head, then sliding to the beaker, which was still rocking from side to side on the floor.

Giff widened his eyes and tried to look like he was in control of the situation. _Because having one's Chosen assault you with tableware is an everyday occurrence—_ he mocked himself.

The guard looked sceptical. "Everything alright, Sir Companion?" he asked, in a tone that indicated that he was convinced he already knew the answer.

Giff nodded his head in a somewhat frantic fashion.

The guard didn't look any more convinced, but he _had _spent all of his life being told that Heralds— and Companions— always knew best, and that kind of cultural ingraining was hard to overcome.

"Right then," the guard rolled his shoulders and turned around. "We'll be outside, then." He tapped his colleague on the shoulder and the man grunted and reluctantly shoved his sword back into its scabbard, glaring at Michael the whole time, before stalking out of the room. The first guard— the one who'd spoken— pulled the door shut behind him as he left, leaving Giff and Michael alone once more.

They stared at each other, Giff still half hanging through the window, and Michael curled up on the far end of the bed. Giff was relieved to note that there were no more beakers for Michael throw at his head. Then he noticed the earthenware pitcher still sitting on the bedside table.

A wince. _I hope he doesn't notice that._ Giff thought; a pottery jug would hurt a Hell of a lot more than a beaker, and he really didn't want to have to explain to anyone why a groom was picking shards of pottery out of his mane.

_Or out of my face…_

Michael was still glaring at him, both cheeks burning a bright red. He looked like someone who _would_ throw a water pitcher at a Companion's head. It was time for a diplomatic retreat and re-marshalling of reserves.

At least; that was what Giff tried to convince himself of as he extracted his head from the window and reversed away from the building. Somewhat guiltily, Giff regarded the flowerbed underneath the window. He'd manage to trample it quite thoroughly. The Healers were going to add that to the list of reasons justifying tying his tail to his nose.

Morosely, Giff tried to scuff his hooves clean on the cropped short grass of the lawn, and then began aimlessly wandering through the gardens. He was putting off going back to the Field— or Stables— in case anyone _else_ wanted to have a go at shouting at him. _Things can hardly get worse, however,_ Giff decided, only to be proven wrong a moment later as he rounded a high hedge and found himself practically nose-to-rump with another Companion.

_:Watch it, you cretin!_: The mare snapped, tail lashing from side to side, half turning so she could have a look at who had just walked into her.

Giff gulped and backed up a step as he recognised the other Companion as Kit; a mare primarily known for her Chosen (Adept level Mage teacher), and her temper (formidable). _:Sorry—:_

_:You!_: Kit's ears went back and her eyes narrowed. _:What are _you_ doing skulking around here?_:

_:I—:_ Giff backed up a step. _:I was… um… just checking up on Michael.:_ He offered lamely.

Kit eyed him up and down. _:Hmmph.:_ She echoed the mental snort with a physical one and turned the rest of the way around, so that she could stare down the length of her nose at Giff.

It was somewhat of a standing joke amongst the younger Companions in the Field that Kit had spent many candle marks in front of a mirror perfecting her glares… that is; it was somewhat of a standing joke that was _never_ even thought about in places where Kit might overhear. _Intimidating is not the word for her,_ Giff thought, casting about for someway to change the subject.

_:How is your Chosen?_: Giff blurted out, then flinched and braced himself. He had meant to _change_ the subject, not provide Kit's temper with the verbal equivalent of a bushel of woodchips soaked in lamp oil.

_:Hah!_: Kit tossed her head and gave Giff a look that made her previous expression look like something associated with fluffy kittens and puppies. _:Venni is still in Healer's, with a pounding head, a handful of extra white hairs, and a desire to belt _you_ over the head with something heavy.:_ She sniffed, _:I suggested one of the Collegium roofing tiles.:_

Giff flattened his ears and tried to look as contrite as possible. It seemed to work to some extent; at least Kit didn't kick him in the head or anything equally violent.

_Her stare is bad enough._

Lowering his head and skirting around the mare in a wide circle, Giff produced an embarrassed cough. _:I'll just go and um—:_ As soon as he got clear, the young Companion jumped into a trot and headed for the river. He could feel Kit's eyes on him as he put as much distance between them as possible.

Thankfully, she didn't follow after him.

Upon reaching the river, Giff squirreled himself away in a small copse of densely foliaged evergreen trees. It wasn't that he was _hiding_ precisely. No.

_I'm just… planning what to do next._ Giff nodded his head to himself. _Yes; that's what I'm doing, not hiding at all._ A sigh. He didn't really sound all that convincing, even to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Original characters, the plot line and the general outbreaks of _strange_ belong to etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** Tally ho! On with the story!

**Chapter Two.**

**_Hear the flies swarming – Deep south – Appearances are deceiving – A gathering of shadows_**

The single fly buzzing and butting at the window in a persistent fashion appeared to have completely forgotten the reason it had flown into the single, dank room in the first place. Not so the rest of the swarm; they hovered and crawled around the tattered oval stain that had warped the rough wooden floorboards.

In places, it still shone wetly in the dim illumination provided by the collection of collapsed and mostly spent candles that were congealed to the floor in a precise circle that was at odds with the squalor of the rest of the room.

Intricate lines of chalk completed the candle circle and made weird and esoteric abstract shapes that may— or may not— have been inscriptions. Seven of the abstract shapes had been traced over with another substance; a liquid that had mostly dried, leaving a dark residue behind.

The air smelt like a copper temple roof on a hot summer day.

"What is it?" The voice was low, dull sounding, with a faint hint of petulance. An observer would be under the impression that the question was being asked, not because the owner of the voice was _interested_ at all, but more that they were well aware that the question was expected. And that there would be consequences if the expected didn't occur.

"It is the means to an end," if the first voice carried overtones of _minion_, this second voice shouted _top dog_ in fifteen common languages and additionally provided an elegantly calligraphied written announcement for the hard of hearing.

The second voice, as smooth as honey in a hive— and the danger of a fatal stinging was also implicit— warmed to the subject. "You are privileged to be witnessing the start of the future," a self-satisfied sounding hum, "_my_ future."

Footsteps echoed hollowly on the rotten floor, pacing around the circle in a slow and deliberate fashion. Robes of a non-descript colour flared slightly behind the walker, the wind the billowing cloth created making the candle flames flicker and bob fully half of them extinguishing as the disturbance— combined with the lack of burnable wick— stifled them.

Crazy sinister shadows danced across the walls and into the corners in a menacing fashion.

"We have much to do, Dupe." The second voice again; a tone that was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed immediately, if not sooner. The pacing figure stopped and tapped one foot on the floor for a moment, before its head, hidden in the shadows of a deep cowl, nodded once, decisively. "Another hunt, tonight; let the darlings know."

"Yes, Mistress," the _minion_ voice; resigned, with a thin patina of fear at the last command. A faint creaking of floorboards, followed by a pained sounding groan as the room's single door was pulled open wide enough to allow a single, slim figure, backlit by the light that streamed in from the corridor, to exit.

The hinges groaned a second time as the door swung closed.

The robed figure stared down at something cradled in its hands. "Oh yes," it whispered to itself softly, we have much to do."

—0—

_This is all some messed up drug trip,_ Michael tried to convince himself. _It can't be anything else. Ralph spiked my coffee with methadone or lysergic acid and I'm lying on the break room floor, drooling._

Michael's eyes drifted to the wooden beaker lying on the floor a short distance away. _It can't be anything _but_ a drug hallucination._ He insisted silently. After all; the collection of costumes, the highly trained white horses, the plethora of ren-faire rejects?

It _had_ to be a dream.

_Absolutely. This is a dream. I am going to _kill_ Ralph slowly when I wake up; slowly, and with angiotribes._ The young man grimaced to himself and sighed loudly, before relaxing enough to bang his head against the smooth, pale green coloured, wall with a dull thud.

Michael closed his eyes and stared at the darkness behind his eyes for a long moment as he tried to calm down. Chucking the cup at the horse that had been entirely too fascinated with him had been satisfying… but only briefly. He was still, after all, stuck in this room that smelt strangely like the hospital.

_I thought drug trips were supposed to be more interesting than this?_

Actually… Michael opened his eyes and inhaled deeply; this room smelt a _lot _like the hospital. That was strange— he knew that the sense of smell (like hearing) was one of the most open to external stimulation, even if the owner of said senses was off in la-la land— so, by all rights, he should be smelling burnt coffee and socks, with a faint hint of popcorn and disinfectant. That was what the break room at City General _normally _smelt like.

This raised an unpleasant possibility. _What if I'm not lying on the break room floor tripping?_ Michael wondered uneasily. _What if I'm lying on the floor of Resus, tripping?_ Or, even worse; _what if I'm lying on a _bed_ in Resus, tripping? I am _so_ fired._

Groaning loudly, Michael thumped his head back against the wall again, harder this time.

_Fuck._

Further contemplation of being redundant and branded a drug addict was cut off by the sound of the door to the room opening. Initially, his eyes just flicked over to the doorway (Michael had semi-settled on a kind of aloof outward disinterest in his surroundings. Unless they were damned white horses, then he'd throw something at them), but then he found his attention dragged back as two creatures entered the room.

The second one was a young man— if pushed, Michael would have said he was in his early twenties— wearing some kind of green robe effort that actually resembled a surgeon's theatre gown. If, you know, surgeons had a thing for Medieval re-enactments. He was immediately dismissed, however.

This was because the _first_ thing through the door was a wolf.

A wolf the size of a small pony.

And it was staring at him.

Michael froze. _Now we're getting to the crazy part of the drug trip!_ The bit of his mind that insisted on being an internal monologue for _everything_ announced gleefully.

The rest of his mind, and his vocal cords, managed, "Mmmwwa—!"

That made the giant wolf cock its head to one side and stare at him with renewed interest. _It's probably deciding where to bury the bones,_ the internal monologue piped up.

_Shut. Up._ Michael told himself firmly, in the small portion of his mind that wasn't currently involved in making him sound like a complete idiot.

"—aaaahhh!"

Like that.

The young man said something, and stepped between Michael and the huge wolf, turning to face the wolf, his hands on his hips.

"Hunheee?" Michael managed. It almost sounded as if the man wearing green was reprimanding the wolf. This really _was_ turning into a truly random pharmacological experience.

A pharmacological experience that only got _more_ outré when the wolf flattened its ears and both it and the young man started looking like they were having a _conversation_. Why not? The local members of the equine fraternity seemed to make a point of acting bizarre, so why not the canidae as well?

The young man finished his… conversation? …with the wolf, and turned back to face Michael, who managed to stare at him blankly. The young man started talking again— at least, Michael _assumed_ he was being talked to; the green-man's mouth was opening and sounds were coming out of it.

_I have no idea what the hell I've taken, but _damn_ my imagination's having a field day—_ Michael sighed to himself as the young man pointed at himself and produced a set of sounds that sounded like a mumble followed with a sneeze. _Maybe that's his name?_

Pasting a slightly worried smile on his face, Michael nodded; he may as well go with the flow and hope that this whole crazy thing got itself over and done with.

Mumble-sneeze smiled encouragingly, then gestured to the large wolf; who was apparently called something that sounded like a purring cat that subsequently choked on something.

Michael gave a strained smile, nodded as if he understood and silently began shouting at himself to _wake the Hell up!_

Purr-choke was still staring at him, its head on one side. It twitched an ear, and Mumble-sneeze paused in mid-babble to stop and stare at the wolf. Then he started talking to it again.

_Wake up!_ Michael told himself firmly. _Wake up now!_

Mumble-sneeze appeared to be losing whatever argument he was having with Purr-choke the wolf. This fact was borne out by the young man sighing and wandering across the room to retrieve the wooden beaker that was still lying on the floor, beneath the window.

Walking back across the room, Mumble-sneeze placed the beaker on the table, next to the water jug, then continued on to the door; which he pulled open and had a brief conversation with the guard standing outside.

Since Purr-choke was still _looking_ at him, however, Michael was only vaguely aware of this. Mainly, his attention was all about the giant wolf that was probably going to eat him.

_The inside of my head sucks,_ Michael concluded, his attention still fixed on Purr-choke. _Where's the girls in bikinis? The lottery win? The _Mustang_? Instead, I get Renaissance fair rejects and the back catalogue of Animal Actors. God._

Mumble-sneeze vanished out into the corridor, then reappeared a moment later, carrying a wooden tray.

The wolf shuffled out of the way; although it still kept on staring at Michael in what he considered to be an offensively carnivorous way, and Mumble-sneeze sidled past it to place the tray on the bedside table. His expression are faintly triumphant. He said something that sounded like a cat coughing up a hairball, and pointed at the tray.

Michael slid his gaze away from Purr-choke (with difficulty; who knew when it would decide to have him for lunch?) and looked at the tray. It contained a wooden bowl, a second wooden beaker and a wooden spoon.

The contents of the bowl _looked_ like a bloody hairball that had been put through a blender.

A groan. First (and so very definitely the _last_) drug trip of his life (except for that one time with the Night Nurse, but that didn't really count as he'd had a temperature of a hundred and four and a half, thought that his flatmate's Yucca plant was a Russian spy, and that _he_ was James Bond) and he'd managed to hallucinate himself gruel.

_Gruel!_

_The inside of my head sucks _big_ time._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Original characters, the plot line and the general outbreaks of _strange_ belong to etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** This plotting thing is actually turning out to be a remarkable amount of fun…

**Chapter Three.**

**_Kit has a point – A prospective headache – Moonshine at midnight – Darling revealed_**

_:You want me to _what: Giff gave Regin— Companion to Queen Halla— an incredulous look. _:I think I must have misheard you—:_

_:No you didn't.:_ Regin gave Giff a jaundiced look. _:You heard me perfectly well; when Yaul gets here, we want you to get your… Chosen… angry.:_

Giff flattened his ears and looked from Regin, to the currently silent figure of the Groveborn, Dadero, then back again. _:How am I supposed to do that— and _why_ do you want me to do that?_: He asked plaintively.

Regin twitched an ear, and tilted his head towards Dadero, deferring to the older stallion.

Dadero sighed. _:Because I— we— do not believe that Yaul will be able to bypass Michael's formidable mental shields, without causing him serious trauma—:_

_:—and you've already managed to do that quite adequately on your own.:_ The snippy aside made the three male Companion start in surprise and turn to look at Kit, who had popped up out of nowhere, as was her habit. Giff swallowed and manoeuvred himself so that Dadero and Regin were between him and the still irate looking Companion mare. He really wouldn't put it past her to try kicking him into the Terilee, if she got a chance.

_:Companion Kit,_: Dadero said in a neutral tone.

_:Kit…:_ Regin eyed his friend up and down, his attention flicking quickly from Giff to Kit, then back again.

Kit flattened her ears and pulled a face. _:I'm not going to shout at him again— even if he _does_ deserve it,_: she said irritably, _:I simply thought that I may as well do the _thinking_ for you lot, since you don't seem to want to.:_

She really was in a fine temper today, Giff decided, sidling even further away from the mare, just in case she exploded unexpectedly (he wasn't convinced, _despite_ what she might say, that she was in a better mood).

Dadero tilted his head to one side. _:Yes?_: He queried, seemingly unfazed by Kit's extremely abrasive manner. Being technically immortal made for an unflappable personality.

Kit rolled her eyes, both physically and mentally, before speaking. _:You're worried about his—: _she jerked her nose towards Giff, sheltering behind Regin, _:—Chosen getting some mental trauma from having a dyheli stick a crash course in the Valdemaran language in his head, right?_:

_:Well, yes,_: Regin said. _:Although Halla has also authorised Yaul to give Michael a basic understanding of Valdemar as a kingdom, and of the Heralds and Companions, when he arrives.:_

Kit snorted and gave the semi-circular bruise visible smack between Giff's eyes a pointed look. _:I imagine once he finds out that 'we' want him to be a suicidal maniac who wears white, he'll pitch something heavier than a wooden beaker at twit's head.:_ She appeared to consider this for a moment. _:I want to be there when he does.:_

Giff flinched and gave Dadero an appealing look over Regin's back.

The Groveborn sighed. _:You had a point, besides physical assault, Kit?_: He prompted her.

_:Of course I did,_: Kit sniffed loudly and flicked her tail. _:Have you considered the mental trauma that you've _already_ inflicted on this Michael; dragging him through a Gate to another plane of reality?_:

_:Ah—: _Giff felt the familiar feeling of embarrassment begin to wash over him, as Regin and Dadero exchanged inscrutable looks.

_:You have a point—:_ Regin said in a faintly sheepish tone of voice.

Kit gave him a superior look. _Of course I do,_: she said. _:I told you; at least _one_ of us has to use the brains that the Gods gave us.:_

Regin gave Dadero a slightly helpless look. _:What do we do?_: He asked.

Giff supposed that he should be annoyed that the three older Companions were discussing his Chosen as if he wasn't even there, but, to be perfectly frank; he was just relieved that no one was _shouting_ at him at the moment. Although… by the sounds of it, what the Groveborn and Queen's Companion wanted to do was to stick Giff in a position where Michael could shout at him to his heart's content. _I can't win,_ Giff decided glumly.

_:Hmmm,_: Dadero looked thoughtful for a moment, his expression going distant, before shaking his head and blinking several times. _:I do not see that we have any option except to continue as we planned; at least if Michael can _understand_ us then we shall be able to help him cope with any culture shock he will be feeling.:_

Giff's ears flattened and he dropped his head. They _were_ proposing that he put himself in the firing range of another attack— verbal or otherwise— from his supposed Chosen. _I _really_ can't win._

_:Heh.:_ Kit even managed to _snort_ in a way that eloquently expressed her opinion of Giff and the problems he had created.

_:Yaul should be here by later on today; he was out visiting the Home Farms dyheli herd,_: Dadero said, with a reproving look in Kit's direction.

_:Oh…:_ Giff said in a non-committal fashion; he wasn't entirely sure what the Groveborn expected him to say, so he decided to stick to something that couldn't possibly be viewed as argumentative or otherwise likely to get him shouted at.

_Except for by my Chosen,_ Giff sighed internally.

Regin twisted his head around and gave the young Companion a knowing look. _:Having Yaul give Michael Valdemaran is not the only reason that we are suggesting this,_: he said. _:Yaul is adept at creating Mindlinks that bypass even the most impenetrable of shields…:_ The stallion trailed off significantly.

Giff blinked, then comprehension flooded over him; with the dyheli helping him, he should be able to established a Bond with Michael. A Bond that should survive when (not if) Michael's shield slammed back up. _:That would be… good.:_ He said cautiously.

Kit rolled her eyes. _:I have to go meet Kristin's Shilla, let me know when Yaul gets her; I want to see the aftermath.:_ She smirked in Giff's direction, then flagged her tail and trotted off.

The three stallions stared after her in a faintly bemused fashion. Kit often had that effect on people.

—0—

It had been a stupid idea, a _stupid_ idea. He should never have agreed to go with his brother out to the woods in the dark.

So what if local rumour had it that the Widow Mersdan had a secret moonshine still hidden away in a clearing?

What had seemed like a really _good_ idea, early this evening, sitting around their usual corner table in the Queen's Head Inn, was now the one thing in his life that Farl was beginning to regret the most. Stifling a sob, the young man wrapped his arms tight around himself and tried to fit all of his gangly frame into the meagre shelter offered by a hawthorn bush.

He'd not seen his brother— Jees— since they'd reached the small clearing in the woods that did indeed contain a cobbled together collection of barrels and pipes that made up a still. They'd slapped each other on the back and unhooked the empty wineskins from their belts and had crept forwards to help themselves and then—

—something had moved in the shadows and a cold, quiet voice had said, "Take them,"

And then those… _things_… had leapt out of nowhere.

Farl clenched his jaw and tried to regulate his frantic, fear motivated pants into normal breaths. He couldn't hear anything; no matter how much he strained his ears, and that should have been a reassuring thought, but it wasn't because the _things_ hadn't made any sound at all and for all Farl knew, they could be right on the other side of the bush at this very—

A twig snapped, close by and Farl bit down on the urge to scream, catching his tongue between his teeth in the process. A rush of hot, salty blood filled his mouth with sharp daggers of pain, and Farl began to cry silently. The tears made it even harder from him to see his surroundings and the young man blinked frantically as he looked around.

There was nothing moving.

That was somehow worse.

Something started to click and chitter to itself, right above his head, and Farl knew with absolute ice cold certainty that the thing was laughing at him.

And then, before he could scream, black strobing pain lashed out and captured him and that was the last thing Farl knew.

—0—

A short distance away, two figures were listening; one was seated gracefully on a low boulder, its expression cold and imperious, and the second was standing a few steps away, in a pose that was both fearful and subservient.

The seated figure raised one hand, which contained a plain wine glass, half filled with a translucent liquid that the crescent moonlight bleached to a grey-silver colour. "This doesn't taste too bad; empty the rest of the still, Dupe." A command.

The standing figure bobbed its head. "Yes mistress," it said softly, and began doing as it had been instructed.

Off to one side, there was a rustling, dragging sound, which both of the figures ignored; the seated one taking another ruminative sip at the liquid in the glass.

One of the trees creaked and groaned then a limp bundle fell to the ground. The faint moonlight made it look as if had been dipped in glossy black paint. It was just about recognisable as having once been a person. An odd, hunched figure jumped down after it, landing on the ground and balancing on what were presumably its hind legs, in a furtive looking crouch.

The seated figure tilted its head to one side and, even though the shadow cast by the hood of the cloak it was wearing obscured its face, the frown was evident in its voice. "You were not given permission to start eating."

The hunched figure shuffled from foot to foot, most of its body hidden beneath swaddling layers of tattered and mismatched clothes. Its hands, which reached out to touch the corpse in a possessive fashion, were clawed and covered in scaled skin. **_Hungry—_** It protested in something that wasn't quite Mindspeech, and could only have been considered Empathy if viewed through a thick pane of cheap glass.

"I did not give you permission," the seated figure leaned forwards, icy disapproval radiating from it.

**_Hungry—_** a whining chitter underscored the not-quite word.

"You were not given permission," an even tone of voice. The figure by the still froze, then carefully slunk sideways, trying its best to make itself as inconspicuous as possible. "I do not like being disobeyed,"

The hunched figure by the corpse suddenly doubled over, clawed hands scrambling at its abdominal area. A faint sound escaped from between its clenched jaw as it scuffled backwards, feet kicking furrows in the damp soil.

Unconcernedly, the seated figure finished the glass of moonshine, before gesturing negligently with one hand. "You may be my darlings, but you will _not_ disobey me, is that understood?"

The hunched figure shivered convulsively, then slumped as the spell holding it evaporated. Drawing back, the creature tilted its head back to expose the pale furred line of its throat to the seated figure in a submissive gesture. Moonlight created thin highlight lines across long, twitching ears and twisted mammalian features. **_Sorry— Mistress—_**

"Hmm," the seated figure straightened up, apparently satisfied. "You will wait until the others return."

**_Yes— Mistress—_** the creature settled back on its haunches, one hind leg extending to reveal matted fur and a paw-like bare foot. It absently scratched at itself with one claw-hand and snuffled at the air.

Around them, the woodland was absent of the usual nocturnal noise. Instead, the air was ghosted through with an intermittent clicking and hissing that was full of unspoken menace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Original characters, the plot line and the general outbreaks of _strange_ belong to etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** Alternatively, this story could be titled _A Non-Reflected Graphical Representation of a Conic Section in Perceivable Four Dimensional Space-Time_. But that's not really as snappy, is it?

**Chapter Four.**

**_Complete dry pet food not available – Hallucinatory animals that have a thing about stalking – Do horses know semaphore? – When dyheli attack – Somewhere in the countryside – A novel use for chainmail_**

The random pharmaceutical experience had moved itself (and Michael) to the next level. Shortly after the giant killer (anything that big and carnivorous blatantly didn't eat Eukanuba for breakfast) wolf and Mumble-sneeze had left, one of the men wearing the _really_ convincing costumes showed up again and— by dint of much gesturing— got Michael to stand up and walk out of the glazed door that made up part of the exterior wall of the room.

Michael had done as the man had pantomimed, mainly because he had the strong belief that obeying the person with the sword was a good way to continue living. And now he was standing outside in what appeared to be some strange cross between a Victorian English kitchen garden and an abandoned hot house.

At least this was an improvement on hallucinating gruel. In fact; Michael had actually cautiously tasted some of said gruel and had come to the sad conclusion that his imagination completely _bombed_ when it came to imagining tastes.

_It's pretty good at smells though,_ frowning faintly, Michael looked around the garden he was currently standing in. The man with the sword had thankfully disappeared as suddenly as he'd appeared, and the young American felt much more comfortable now that there was no longer someone with two and a half foot of sharp steel standing behind him. Even if this _was_ all a dream.

_Now what am I supposed to do?_

The neatly trimmed looking border didn't seem to have any answers. Nor did the velvet-like green lawn, or the fantastical looking woody creepers that were in the process of completely covering the brick walls of the garden.

_Great. Just marvellous. Something awful is going to spring over a wall, or leap out from underground and probably beat me to death with my own chewed-off leg any moment now,_ Michael thought sourly, crossing his arms uncomfortably over his chest in a protective gesture. _Or worse; there'll be more gruel._

Any further wondering, and the opportunity to explore the closed in garden, was cut off by the appearance of— _oh I don't _believe_ this!_— the crazy white horse that had been harassing Michael before. The white horse, in fact, that had shown up at the very _beginning_ of this whole thing, and seemed determined to stalk Michael until he woke up.

This time, it'd bought backup as well.

Michael froze and gained an uneasy expression. The stalker-horse was easy enough to spot; it had a large bruise right between its eyes, and Michael had a brief moment of pride that his pitching skills hadn't completely atrophied. In addition, there were also two other white horses. Both of them were larger than the stalker-horse and Michael got the impression that they were older.

One of the horses was giving him an extremely jaundiced look. Michael wasn't entirely sure how something like a horse managed to have a facial expression that said, quite so clearly, _you really were the _last_ in a long line of shitty things that I didn't need happening today_. Because that was crazy thinking, right? Horses— animals in general— didn't have facial expressions like people did, right?

Right.

_There is absolutely no need to go around anthropomorphising hallucinatory animals!_ Michael told himself fiercely.

The third horse just glowed like a really cheap special effect, circa 1974.

And there was a fourth animal. Michael groaned. Apparently his hallucinations were now spreading to encompass the fauna of the African sub-continent as well. It looked like some kind of gazelle. But taller. And like it'd taken a lot of steroids recently. And then fallen in a peroxide bath.

_A large pair of angiotribes, myself and Ralph have an imminent appointment with each other, we really do._

Not surprisingly, the gazelle was staring at him too. Michael felt like he was in some bizarre parody of a zoo, where _he_ was the exhibit.

Pissed off horse turned its attention to stalker-horse, who side-stepped and dipped its head. Special effects horse and steroid gazelle joined pissed off horse in focusing on stalker-horse.

Stalker-horse looked like it was pouting, in the same _almost_ way that had Michael thinking that all four of the animals were having a conversation.

_Stop anthropomorphising the animals, Michael!_

Tightening his arms around his chest, Michael managed to produce a fairly good glare. Stalker horse moved towards him a few steps, caught sight of his expression and stopped.

It looked back over its shoulder at other two horses and the gazelle and sighed loudly. Flattening its ears, stalker horse began walking towards Michael again, picking its way across the short cropped grass with unnerving silence. Given the uncompromising expressions that the gazelle and the other two horses were sporting; not a surprising act.

Michael didn't want the horse coming closer to him (who knew _how _many different ways it might injure him?) and he retreated a few steps, trainers crunching on the fine gravel that made up the path. "Don't you dare—" he said, more for his own reassurance than out of any believe that the damn creature would understand him.

_And that's the crazy talk again._ _Animals can't understand language, remember?_ Standing in the middle of this garden, being stalked by a horse (and its friends), it was surprisingly hard to remember that fact.

Stalker-horse stopped just in front of Michael and looked at him. It had the strangest coloured blue eyes that he'd ever seen; not that he was exactly the expert on horses or anything.

Michael stared at it, and it stared back at him, then twitched one ear and twisted its head around to look uncertainly at the Three Stooges on the far side of the garden. Pissed off horse tossed its head and snorted loudly and, if Michael didn't know better, he would have _sworn_ that the gazelle was _laughing_.

Except that animals didn't laugh. In the same way that they didn't talk, act intelligent, understand language, or have proper facial expressions… right?

_Right._

Stalker-horse laid its ears back and returned its attention to Michael. One ear flicked upright, then the second.

_Do horses know semaphore?_

Michael watched the horse warily, his arms still crossed defensively across his chest. He was still unprepared, however, for what it did next; which was to step forwards and quickly nudge his face with its nose.

Its wet, _slimy_ nose.

"What the _Hell_?" Michael jumped backwards, pushing himself away from the crazy horse, before lashing out with one of his arms. Thankfully, the angle of his attack meant that he didn't stick his hand into the horse's mouth (and subsequently get it bitten off), but instead backhanded it across its nose.

"Ow!" Michael stumbled backwards and clutched at his abused (and stalker-horse abusing) right hand; who knew that a horse's nose would be _that_ bony?

Stalker-horse expressed a similar sentiment, leaping backwards and emitting a high-pitched squeal of pained surprise.

For a moment, Michael was mortally scared that the stupid creature would brain him with its hooves, but then the fear gave way to anger— what kind of self satisfying hallucination was _this_ supposed to be? Taking in a deep breath, he shouted, "It's your own bloody fault you slobbering great big pile of walking dog food!"

Stalker horse trumpeted and shook its head violently from side to side.

"Just being a horse does not make you a mustang; and especially not the kind of bloody Mustang that I want to be dreaming about!" Michael drew a breath, his head was beginning to ache in a strange fashion, "and don't get me started about the piss poor excuse for food that whatever part of my subconscious that you're supposed to be representing has lumbered me with!"

The strange ache seemed to have an audible component; a sort of not-quite-there buzzing filled his ears as the strange pressing sensation intensified. What was he shouting about? A bit of repetition seemed to be in order. "I was _supposed_ to be assisting in a triple bypass—"

Michael didn't even have time to register that he was losing consciousness before a split-second of migraine inducing visual disturbance joined in with the buzzing pressure and metamorphosed into solid blackness.

—0—

It was a miserable night; the wind was driving an unseasonably cold summer rainstorm over the hills and the air was chilly and damp. Guldin Takmenas, owner of The Black Sheep inn grumbled to himself as he stared out at the gloomy evening from the open kitchen door of his establishment.

The weather had closed in to the extent that he could hardly make out the mountainous landscape that predominated in northern Menmellith, except for when the occasional sheet of lightning flickered half-heartedly across the sky. As well as hiding the surrounding area from view, the foul weather had also drastically reduced the number of people that should be sitting in the Black Sheep's main tap room.

Thunder growled damply around the hills and Guldin shoved the kitchen door shut with a muttered imprecation. It was going to be a slow night. The locals (The Black Sheep was built at one end of the village of Lower Reillin; a place that owed its existence entirely to the trade road that bisected it) were probably at home, wisely curled up in front of blazing fires, and there was little chance of any travellers being out and about still at this time.

Any sensible travellers— those that wanted to continuing existing in a capacity that included _breathing_ and _autonomous voluntary movement_ as options— would have consulted with a Weather Watcher before setting out along the trade road. Although the route provided a vital link between the capital city, Keyold, and the countries to the north, including Valdemar, it also passed through some of the most treacherous hill country that Menmellith had to offer.

As well as the bandits that said treacherous hill country had to offer.

The roving bandits were the reason that The Black Sheep wouldn't be visited by any _non_ sensible travellers.

Guldin nodded to his wife, the cook, who was sitting next to the banked fire, her feet up and a mug of something warm in one hand, and traipsed back through to the 'public' half of the inn. The tap room was completely deserted. Sighing, Guldin toed one of the rough wooden chairs that served as part of the mismatched furniture and slouched on it. It looked by being a _very_ slow night—

Except that the innkeeper could hear the clattering sounds of a carriage drawing up in front of the stables that sprouted from the left side of the inn. Not only that; the sounds of several horses; nervous snorts and whinnies, and a commanding voice, that sounded female.

Guldin added all of that up in his head, and came up with an answer of _daft highborn who wouldn't know reason if it bit her on the tail_, something that could also be quantified as _money_. Maybe tonight wasn't going to be a complete washout.

"Seera!" Guldin levered himself to his feet and bellowed in the direction of the kitchen. "Git the fire stoked an' some bread warmin' in't oven!"

Seera's reply was muffled by the walls. It included the words 'goat' and 'shut', however.

"An' stop drinkin' all the mulled wine!" Guldin shouted back. Guldin and Seera's marriage was full of… colour.

Any reply Seera may have made (possibly involving goats, but maybe not), was drowned out by the sudden clatter of the main door that led to the stable yard as it burst open and two figures swathed in rain-soaked clothing bundled through the door. The wind howled behind them, and Guldin could hear the unseen horses in the yard still kicking up a fuss. Maybe they'd run into a pack of wolves on the road and were still spooked, or something.

One of the cloaked and hooded figures— both of their faces were hidden— had on livery of some description; a fine looking black trimmed red jacket and Guldin did a hasty recalculation and up scaled the inn's prices in his head. Anyone who had footmen and was out in this weather _deserved_ to be fleeced. And wasn't this sheep country, after all?

The figures stepped into the room— Guldin couldn't help but notice that the one with the red jacket visible under its cloak was… not precisely limping… but was walking as if there was something wrong with one of its legs. Further speculation was stopped by the arrival in the doorway of two more figures. The shorter one just _had _to be the noble; her cloak hood was fur lined and—

Guldin froze, his eyes wide with surprise as the noble shrugged her cloak back from her shoulders, revealing what she was wearing underneath. Or rather, what she _wasn't_ wearing underneath, because what she _was_ wearing was very little indeed. And it appeared to be made almost entirely of chainmail. The five percent of Guldin's brain that wasn't busy either heading southwards (in more than one way), or starting to get really _bad_ feelings about this, noticed that the chainmail appeared to be gold washed.

That five percent also noticed the second, slightly taller figure standing behind the... very _definitely_ a female… who must be some kind of servant. Certainly, her clothes (which actually existed in a meaningful fashion) were plain and non-descript and her face was entirely unremarkable and wouldn't have looked amiss atop the shoulders of any common Menmellith peasant.

The woman in the… interesting… outfit swept her gaze around the deserted tap room, then fixed her attention on Guldin. Her eyes were a dark, almost black colour and her expression was several degrees below freezing. One perfect black eyebrow arched slightly as a slight smile tugged at the woman's lips.

Guldin's very bad feelings were getting stronger by the second.

"Uh… good evening…?" Guldin managed in a voice that cracked slightly on the last word. His attention was caught by the… man?... in the red jacket, who was hunkered down on the floor almost like an animal. Guldin could feel himself being watched and he swallowed nervously. With a somewhat sick feeling, the innkeeper suddenly noticed that the clothes worn by red-jacket, and the other one, were ill fitting and tattered; almost as if they'd been scavenged and then worn regardless of whether they fitted or not.

The tattered edges looked like claw marks, and there were faded rusty-brown stains around them.

"I think we will stay here for tonight—" the shorter woman spoke, breaking the silence, and strode into the room to drape herself carelessly over one of the benches. "I am the Lady Enyivika," the faint smirk flashed into existence once more, "—and I have a servant called Dupe."

Guldin's wide eyes flicked to the plain-clad woman who was still standing. She had a slightly blank and distracted expression on her face.

"You, however," The woman in the chainmail leaned forwards with a faint jingling, "may call me Mistress. Call through whoever is in the kitchen."

Guldin swallowed; his throat had gone dry with fear and he was trying to keep track of the four strangers in the room. The two hooded figures were now pacing around the perimeter of the room, making strange snuffling and clicking sounds. "There's— ah— no-one here but me—" Guldin faltered. Hopefully Seera would have the good sense to slip out the kitchen door and run to the town for the guard.

The woman— Enyivika, narrowed her eyes. "You are _lying_ to me," she said. "I don't like it when people _lie_ to me— get it—" That last command was directed at the figure with the red jacket, who darted across the room and through the door to the kitchen.

There was silence for a moment, during which the peasant woman (the servant called Dupe?) took a seat, her attention still seemingly partly elsewhere, and then a high pitched scream rent the air.

"Seera!" Guldin started towards the kitchen, but froze when the second hooded figure appeared in front of him. He hadn't even seen the thing _move_. It hissed at him and Guldin backed off a few steps. From this close up, he could see the lamplight reflecting in the creatures eyes. They weren't human eyes.

A series of bumps and a dragging sound announced red-jacket's return from the kitchen; Guldin's wife apparently unconscious and being dragged feet first behind it.

Guldin stared in numb horror; whatever kind of fight Seera had put up had pulled off the creature's cloak and he could see it clearly for the first time.

Slitted cat-eyes glared at Guldin from underneath a heavy, beetling brow and a chewed and tattered looking pair of rabbit ears; long incisor teeth, stained and caked with what could only be blood were visible as the creature hissed loudly at Guldin. A forked lizard-tongue tasted at the air briefly, and the hands that gripped Seera's ankles hard enough to surely leave bruises were clawed and covered in dull grey and brown scales.

Without the anonymity of the cloak, it was obvious that the creature's odd walking gait was due to its hind leg structure, which resembled that of a four-footed creature, not a human. The wolf-like feet visible beneath the torn-off ends of the leather breeches the creature approximately wore— claws scouring at the wooden floor as the creature shifted its weight from foot to foot— confirmed this.

The faint sound of chainmail moving and scraping along wood dragged Guldin's attention back to the lady.

"Of course, when I said _lady_," she said absently, toying with a small black knife that Guldin couldn't figure _where_ she'd produced it from, "what I actually meant was Adept mage…" the tinkling laugh that Enyivika produced chilled Guldin to the bone. "I think you can probably guess the rest… shall we have some fun?"

Guldin could hear the horses screaming outside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Original characters, the plot line and the general outbreaks of _strange_ belong to etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** _Subjective description_ and _objective description_ are two completely different things. This is— remarkably— relevant.

**Chapter Five.**

**_A state of hunger – A different kind of seeing – Daydreaming in the evening – An omen, an argument and a sword_**

The rain pattered continuously down from clouds that would have been visible as thick and brooding, if it hadn't already been well past dusk. As it was, a cloying, clammy blanket of night way laid over everything, increasing the impression that Lower Reillin was all on its own in the middle of nowhere.

In the partly-roofed over stable yard of the Black Sheep inn, the darling known (somewhat predictably and _entirely_ ironically) as Rabbit was eyeing up the two rough-coated horses that were still harnessed up to the overly grand looking coach that Mistress had… acquired… back in Keyold, three days previously.

Rabbit was _hungry_. All it had had to eat in the past week had been the remains of one of Mistress's spells back in Keyold, and the less appetising parts of the flock of sheep that the darlings had found on the hills the day before yesterday. Rabbit was pretty much at the bottom of the darling hierarchy; as well as being the smallest of the darlings, it was also— comparatively— the slowest and oldest.

It wasn't _age_ that made it slower than the others, however, it was more that Mistress had been relatively inexperienced when she'd made him. Her technique— and her willingness to try more extreme meldings and matchings— had meant that the newer darlings were faster, somewhat better put together and, of course, could _fly_.

In the case of all but Stripe, the flying was definitely along the lines of _after a fashion_, but they were _still_ faster than Rabbit.

Rabbit blinked as the wind changed direction for a moment, lashing cold droplets of water into his face, and grumbled quietly to itself. The horses snorted and made an abortive attempt to curvette sideways; hampered by the fact that they were tangled in the coach harness and consequently bumping into each other.

Wrinkling its scarred nose, Rabbit showed its teeth in a hiss and sidled across the yard, before insinuating itself through the cracked ajar door leading to the kitchen. Pausing to sniff at the air; something in a pot over the crumbling kitchen cook-fire was burning, Rabbit twitched and scratched at a chewed-looking ear with a clawed foot, then resumed its lurching gait across the kitchen and into the main taproom. Although perfectly capable of walking on two legs only, Rabbit more often adopted the four-or-three legged movement as it meant it could get closer to the ground; and therefore skulk and stalk more efficiently.

The taproom was dimly lit by a couple of glass lanterns and the air was laced with the sharp copper-tang of fresh blood and the tingle of magic. Rabbit whined to itself, the faint pangs of hunger the rich, saliva inducing smell invoked also reminded it of the pain of what happened when Mistress was… displeased.

Speaking of Mistress— she was standing near the centre of the room, her arms spread wide, corner-of-the-eye-visible strands of red-brown and burnt orange energy crawling up her legs and cloak, making glow-in-the-dark spider-web patterns on the fabric. The energy strands were originating from a pile of damp something that was lying within a precisely marked out chalk circle on the warped wooden floor of the inn.

The glow from the lanterns and the magic energy was enough to reflect a curve— that started off white, then changed to brown, and finally black— on a small, round object that was lying to one side of the pile. A thin squiggle of red trailed from one side of the object and up onto the lumpy shape at one end of the pile.

It had hair.

The hair was singed in places; the faint smell underscored the metal-tones of blood and magic thick on the air.

Mistress said something and the energy bunched around her outstretched hands, throwing strange shadows over the walls, before spinning out like gossamer threads to caress the frame of the closed front door, outlining it in a weave-work of dull reds and orange and making the door itself vanish behind a wavering curtain of sparkles and squiggles.

Rabbit followed the example of the other two darlings in the room at the moment— Stripe, who was staring at Rabbit from beneath the tattered overhang of the hooded cloak it was wearing, and Twitch, who was ignoring everything in favour of preening its mottled plumage. Loping forwards a few steps, Rabbit squinted as the brightening light from the doorway glared and flashed from highly polished chainmail, and pawed at its eyes.

Sitting at a table to one side, huddled up as if trying to avoid noticed, was Not-Mistress-not-prey. She was carefully cleaning Mistress's knives with a damp cloth.

Rabbit's attention was dragged back to Mistress once more when she half-shouted a final word and the room was momentarily washed in a burst of soundless darkness. In its wake the lantern flames flickered within their glass prisons and Rabbit's attention was drawn to the doorway. Framed within a thin red outline was a perfectly quiet woodland scene.

The angle of the moon, and the residual light of a clear day, was such that a wavering oblong of silvery light fell through the Gate and onto the stained floor of the taproom. A graceful line of liquid droplets that arched out from the chalk circle shone like black diamonds against the dull wood of the floorboard.

Not-Mistress-not-prey glanced up once, her gaze flickering between Mistress and the glowing doorway, before turning her attention back to the knives.

"Rabbit—" Mistress's voice; commanding.

**_Yes—_** Rabbit paused and crouched down, close to the floor; the proper sign of subservience to show towards those higher up in the pack hierarchy.

One arm extended, pointing towards the glistening pile in the chalk circle. "So that I can see what you do," the instruction sounded cryptic, but Rabbit had been in this position many times before. Eeling forwards, the darling only raised up its body enough to step over the circle without smudging it in any way— that was a sure way to earn painful retribution from Mistress. Snuffling slightly, Rabbit honed in on the small globe that was now highlighted by moonlight as well as magic. The reflections formed a curved cross on the shiny surface; one line orange-red, the other silvery white.

It popped as Rabbit bit down on it, and the darling could feel the still warm jelly slipping down its throat as the faint salty tingle danced along its tongue.

The tantalising hint of nourishment made the darling's stomach rumble, and it twitched sideways, stepping backwards over the chalk lines and giving Mistress an expectant look.

"Through there," Mistress smiled coldly and gestured at the quietly glowing Gate. "You should find something to fill your belly and something to interest me."

Rabbit looked at the Gate and shook itself slightly, making both ears flop around in a fashion that would have been almost comical in any other circumstances. **_Yes— Mistress—_**

"Go, now," Mistress ordered.

Blinking as light once again reflected off chainmail, Rabbit nodded once, then hop-sidled over to the Gate, paused for a moment to sniff cautiously at the smell of night blooming honeysuckle that was perfuming the air immediately in front of the magic portal, then jumped through.

The forest scene in the doorway seemed to ripple and bunch up as the darling 'touched' it and then— and it wasn't entirely clear _how_— instead of deforming some invisible barrier, Rabbit was on the other side of the Gate, tangled about with rich honeysuckle scents.

The visual ripples in the 'picture' worsened, and then the Gate collapsed, leaving the taproom air full of the scent of drying blood and burning lamp oil.

—0—

_:Nattan—:_ Zica flattened her ears and finally halted in the middle of the winding path that led back to the Waystation they were currently staying in. _:Nattan, you've not been listening to a single _word_ that I've said for the past quarter mark—:_

The subject of this resigned nagging; Zica's Chosen, Herald Nattan, didn't respond in any way. Instead he continued to sit— well, slouch— in the saddle, a dreamy, inattentive expression pasted all over his face. Despite the thick shadows and general lack of moonlight reaching large parts of the path, Zica could clearly see Nattan's face if she turned her head, and her ears slicked back against her head even more.

_:Nattan!_: Zica accompanied her aggrieved shout with an almost-buck.

"Argh!" Her Chosen yelped and tipped forwards in the saddle, flinging out both arms to brace himself against the smooth white curve of Zica's neck. "What the Hell's did you do that for?" Nattan demanded in an annoyed tone of voice.

Zica twisted her head around and stared down her nose at Nattan. _:You've been too busy mooning over Luci to pay any attention to what I've been saying for the past quarter mark!_: She repeated.

Nattan's mouth dragged down in a frown. "Ziccy-zaccy, we're getting _married_ as soon as we get back to Haven,"

Zica rolled her eyes and huffed her sides out in a sigh as she began walking once again. _:Believe me, I _know : she complained, _:you haven't talked about anything else this entire Courier run— and stop using that ridiculous nickname, you know I hate it.:_

Nattan sighed resettled himself into his habitual _there's nothing important happening_ slouch. That slouch, as well as irritating the whey out of Zica at certain times— like now— was also the despair of Yisk, the Collegium equitation instructor. Silence descended around the pair as they continued on to the Waystation, located in the woodlands just to the east of the town of Lisle, near the southern border.

As they were just on a routine Courier run, bringing non-sensitive messages for Menmellith and Rethwellan down to the main relay point on the Border itself, Nattan hadn't thought it necessary to stay over in Lisle itself. Zica hadn't been too concerned either way… until she'd had to spend two weeks in the solitary company of her Chosen, who was obsessively mooning over his soon-to-be-wife; a Healer called Luci. The mare had nothing against the young Healer; in fact, she and Luci got on rather well, but Nattan's inability to talk about anything _other_ than the fast approaching wedding had been driving Zica progressively round the bend.

And now there was nothing but a faintly sulky silence, with the prospect of more of the same all night and probably the next day as well. Zica sighed to herself. Companions had it much simpler; something that she most definitely approved of.

The mare was just considering breaking the silence with something that would most definitely _not_ be an apology when—

A feeling like the metaphorical rug of the world had just been yanked from underneath the equally metaphorical feet of the locale; combined with something that felt like having the inside of your head repeatedly smacked with a melting snowball—

Zica stumbled, tripping over her own feet as she briefly lost count of how many legs she actually possessed, then stumbled again as Nattan overbalanced and had to clutch at the pommel of the saddle.

"Zica! It wasn't funny the first time!" Nattan ground out, flicking the end of the reins clutched in one hand at the back of his Companion's head.

_:Hush!_: Zica shook her head and stared around, her eyes flicking from shadowy shape to shadowy shape quickly. _:Didn't you feel that?_:

Nattan muttered to himself and theatrically crossed his arms over his chest, before directing an annoyed glare at Zica's ears. "I didn't feel anything other than you trying to tip me out of the saddle for the second time in as many moments." He told her.

_:There was— someone opened a— I can feel—:_ The mare tried unsuccessfully to arrange her thoughts into a coherent thread of Mindspeech as she cast from side to side, sniffing intently at the air. There was something… off… about the night time, now.

"You're not making any sense, Zica," Nattan said flatly, "just spit it out, already."

_:I'm _trying_ to—:_ Zica insisted, _:what was that?_: She wheeled around abruptly and stared down the path that led towards Lisle. The dusk air was overtly peaceful, the light of the just-risen moon making dappled patterns on the beaten dirt of the path, and a faint smell of honeysuckle perfuming the air.

"What was what—?" Nattan broke off the question and stiffened in the saddle, one hand going to the pommel of his sword.

Both the Herald and the Companion stared off to the left; the direction that the odd clicking sound had come from. Zica became aware, with some unease that the 'normal' sounds of the woods at evening had petered out and the pair of them seemed to be at the centre of an expanding ring of deathly silence.

"Zica?" Nattan sounded worried, his legs clamping hard against the Companions sides. His sword made a faint hissing sound as he drew it from the scabbard and brought it up into a defensive position. The failing light caught one edge of it and made it shine brightly.

_:I think there's something ahea—:_

There was no warning; one moment Zica was standing, her neck stretched out as she strained to see if a suspicious looking shadow really _was _moving, and then there was a sudden crushing weight on top of her and Nattan and—

_Crack—_

—that was the sound of Nattan's neck being broken and it echoed inside of Zica's head and all she could do was whuff out her breath in a pained gasp as agony beyond anything that she'd ever imagined flared outwards from twin points between her eyes and in her chest.

The weight on her back slid sideways— the whole saddle was slipping off, the girth cut by… something?... and Zica managed to stumble forwards a few steps and turn, her ears full of clicking, slobbering sounds.

Nothing could hurt as much as the empty space that should have been Nattan, but that was proved wrong a moment later as Zica managed to focused blurring eyes on the dark shape that was hunched over the crumpled remains of her Chosen and it looked up at her—

—and it twitched battered rabbit ears and raised a lizard foot and bared elongated and bloodstained teeth at her in a menacing hiss—

—and then it leapt for her and the last thing Zica could see was Nattan's sword, cradled in the thorny embrace of a holly bush by the side of the path.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Original characters, the plot line and the general outbreaks of _strange_ belong to etcetera-cat. Trannen Ashkevron was originally thought up by _Cat McDougall_. I stole him, because I'm like that.

**Notes: **This chapter actually has some of the humour promised in the genre classification in it. I hope…

**Chapter Six.**

_**Her bark is worse than her bite… honest – Michael experiences a headache, dyheli style – A Bell rings – The plot thickens**_

_:—was an unexpected side effect; his mind is somewhat different to a… normal…human mind.:_

The very first thing that Michael was aware off was the darkness inside his head suddenly gaining texture.

_:What do you mean? He _is _a normal human!_:

Oh, and the little flashing lights that indicated that he was going to be _in_ for it as soon as his involuntary nervous system noticed that he was in a position to receive pain messages once more.

_:You found him on the other side of a trans-reality Gate, from a world that has public mage lights, but no magic and you think he's _normal :

And the voices.

_:My point exactly—:_

They were actually rather loud, had a strange echo to them, and appeared to be having an argument.

_:If we could please stop bickering about Giff's Chosen?_:

_:I think he's waking up…:_

For some reason, Michael suddenly felt like he was being stared at by multiple pairs of eyes. It was not a comfortable feeling, but he refrained from opening his eyes because the thin ache centred above and behind his sinuses was a packet of ready-mix headache just waiting to happen, just add daylight.

_:Chosen?_: Gravel crunched close to his head and Michael could _feel_ something looming over him. A blast of warm, damp air rolled over his face. _:Are you awake?_:

"Argh!" Michael opened his eyes, then immediately wished that he hadn't, for several reasons. The first one was the awful looming white-and-red _thing_ that was about two inches above his head. He dealt with that by convincing his afferent voluntary nervous system that allowing him to flail his left arm about was a _good _idea. His elbow connected with the surprisingly soft object with a satisfying crack, and it was jerked from view, with an accompanying yelp of pained sound.

_:He _hit_ me! Again!_:

The second reason was harder to deal with; the daylight that shot straight through the back of his retinas, mixed up the packet of headache and banged it into the oven at gas mark four. Then, whilst it was waiting for the headache to cook, it apparently decided to pass the time by hammering red hot icicles through Michael's frontal cortices.

"Argh!" Michael squeezed his eyes closed again. Now he just felt like he was having red hot icicles hammered into his head in the dark. It wasn't really much of an improvement.

_:Argh!_: Nor was the other voice screaming.

There was definitely something strange about the voices that Michael could hear.

_:Well, you two certainly seem to be getting on well.:_

After a moment, he thought he had it; the voices (which were still bickering) sounded like every single B-movie sound recording of telepathy he'd ever had the (mis)fortune of seeing… or hearing… or…whatever.

_:Companion Regin, you are not helping matters.:_

_:You're being no fun, Dadero. Giff, your nose is bleeding. Again.:_

Michael was coming to an uncomfortable conclusion. _Maybe— _just maybe_— this _isn't_ a dream._ On the scale of _uncomfortable_, that thought ranked rather far above being hit in the face with a wet fish, and only marginally below death by Africanised bees. Cautiously, Michael cracked open one eye. The offensively blue sky (he appeared to be outside) took that as an invitation to tap dance on the inside of his skull. In hob-nailed boots.

"Urgh," he managed, after a moment. Instead of retreating back behind the comforting darkness of his own eyelids, Michael braved it out, and managed to crank open his other eye. The sky was still offensively blue and he appeared to be lying flat on his back on what felt like gravel.

After a long moment, the young man remembered that he possessed arms, and that they _could_ actually be used for things other than whacking other things. _Things? I'm making no sense, even to myself._ Wincing heavily, Michael managed to dig his elbows into the ground and lever himself into something approaching a sitting position. Despite the ground doing a creditable impression of the high seas, and the tap-dancing icicles focusing their attentions immediately behind his right eye, Michael managed to look around.

If anything, his day got worse.

For one thing; he remembered the events leading up to him waking up. Events that involved the three white horses and the odd looking gazelle that were staring at him, right now. One of the white horses was sporting a bruised forehead and evidence of at least two nosebleeds.

The gazelle blinked large, liquid brown eyes at him.

_:I've located a Healer trainee to bring out some headache tea.:_

Michael's eyes widened; for some reason, he _knew_ that the voice belonged to the deer. It looked as if his earlier worries about unnecessarily anthropomorphising the animals were entirely unfounded. They were managing it _quite _adequately on their own.

_:Ahem,_: the white horse that insisted on faintly glowing like a cheap special-effect made a sound like someone clearing their throat, only… without the actual throat-clearing. When compared with everything _else_ that had happened since ten-twenty pm on a Thursday evening in Chicago turned inexplicably into something-past-morning in Merry Olde Wherever (simply by the appearance of one weird white horse in his back yard), this actually seemed relatively normal. Besides, Michael's head hurt too much for him to scream any more.

The glowing white horse— who the others seemed to be deferring to, as if it was some kind of leader, shook its head slightly and pricked its ears as it pinned Michael with an intensely blue stare. _:He, not it,_: the words arrived in Michael's head in a _very_ masculine voice.

"Oh," he managed. Anything more intelligent would have to wait until the gears of his higher brain functions stops freewheeling. Oh, and until the killer headache of doom with went away or got on with it and _killed_ him.

_:I am the Groveborn Companion Dadero, Companion to the Queen's Own Herald Gillan, and tacit leader of the Companions of Valdemar.:_ It—he— paused and gave Michael an expectant look.

Somewhat to Michael's surprise, the arcane sounding titles _did_ actually sound familiar to him. He wasn't entirely sure how or why.

_:That is Regin; Companion to the Queen of Valdemar—:_ the horse who'd introduced himself as Dadero nodded his head towards the white horse who Michael distinctly remembered was the one who had been giving him the pissed off look before, _:—that is Yaul k'Rika, and the rather sorry looking youngling with the bloody nose is Giff; your Companion.:_

Now they were all giving him expectant (and in Giff's case, injured) looks. For his part, Michael was trying to come to terms with the fact that _memories_ that didn't appear to be his that were bobbing up from the nether regions of his brain and trying to compete with the headache for his attention. "I— what?" Michael managed, as a complete description of what a Companion _was_ (apart from a horse that had a fetish about glowing in the dark) pasted itself into the front of his consciousness.

Any reply to his rather insensible question was cut off by the crunching sound of footsteps heading towards him. Turning slowly, just in case the top of his head fell off, Michael squinted in the general direction of the sounds.

Absently, he noted that the three horses, _actually, they're Companions—_ his mind supplied helpfully, _and the gazelle isn't; he's a dyheli,_ turned to look as well. If his head hadn't felt like the Broadway cast of Riverdance were practicing on his hypothalamus, Michael would have devoted his attention to _where _all this 'useful' information was actually coming from.

Michael's confused introspection lasted long enough for the owner of the footsteps to arrive in front of him and give him a faintly worried look. The child— because she couldn't have been older than about twelve— had hair that had possibly been tied back, but had eaten its restraints at the first opportunity— and was drowning slightly in a robe that was a rather distressing shade of pale green (although that might have been Michael's headache).

"Uh," the girl was giving Michael a wide-eyed stare, as if she'd never seen anything so weird in her life. Michael could relate to that. "Headache tea, y's need t'take a good swig of it," she thrust out one of her hands, and Michael accepted the proffered earthenware flask more out of automatic response, than because he'd understood what the girl had actually said—

Well, it was more that his brain had hit the solid wall of the realisation that he _had_ understood what the girl had said, and a large part of him was insisting that that shouldn't be happening.

_:I really would do as she advises, young man.:_ Then again, his current surroundings included a gazelle— _dyheli_— who was giving him advice. Why shouldn't he be able to understand what the people were saying?

In lieu of anything better to do, Michael managed to wrestle the cork out of the top of the bottle; although the cork looked as if it was going to win for a moment. A sharply herbal aroma curled up into the air under his nose, and Michael gained a dubious expression.

_:I'd… um… just drink it fast,_: without looking, Michael knew that the voice belonged to 'his' Companion. He wasn't quite ready to confront the newly-acquired knowledge about _that_ particular development just yet, and settled for taking a quick swig from the bottle. It wasn't until about half of the large mouthful had already gone down his throat that the _taste_ hit Michael, and he choked, spluttering the rest of the awful stuff everywhere.

_:I told you.:_ The hesitant voice again. _:It'll get rid of our— I mean— your headache, though.:_

The girl in the pale green robes was stifling a giggle, then she seemed to remember something, and her expression slid back into nervous, and she turned her attention to Dadero, Regin and Yaul. "Um," she started, "I brung it 'cos Halth's caught up wiv' the emergency that came up from the city…" she blushed, "um, Hirrn kinda overheard us, though."

_I can understand the _words_, sure, they still don't make any sense,_ Michael stifled a sigh.

The three Companions and the dyheli gained expressions that ranged from worry to something approaching embarrassment. Michael wasn't entirely sure how animals could have facial expressions that obvious.

_:Oh dear,_: the Companion that had been named as Regin observed.

_:Oh dear?_: This voice-in-his-head was a new one; it sounded sort-of female, low and almost like it was underpinned by a growling sound. That wasn't surprising, because the owner of the voice was the giant killer wolf that had been menacing Michael earlier. _:I'll give you bunch of grass eating ninnies 'oh dear'—:_

Michael fixed his rather worried attention on said huge killer wolf, as she stalked down the path towards them. The unwelcome know-it-all who had taken up residence in his head informed him that the wolf was nothing of the sort; she was, in fact, something called a kyree—

_Well, jolly good for her._

—and the young man following her was wearing robes that apparently proclaimed him as a full Healer (the capital letter made itself abundantly obvious), as opposed to the girl who'd given Michael the disgusting herbal drink, who was a trainee Healer. Said young man rolled his eyes and gave Michael an apologetic grin as the kyree stopped in front of Michael and did a fairly good job of intimidating the _Hell_ out of him. It was possibly something to do with the fact that she was _looming_ over him and staring at him in the most penetrating fashion.

_:Now, Hirrn—:_ That was Yaul, the dyheli.

The kyree narrowed her eyes, although she didn't outwardly shift her attention from Michael. _:Don't you 'now, Hirrn' _me_ Yaul k'Rika. Just_ what_ in the name of the Seven Haighlei Hells did you think you were playing at:_ The kyree's ears snapped flat to her head. _:Implanting that volumes of memories is bad enough— but in to someone who we are not even sure has the same_ physiology _as our humans?_:

Michael stared wide-eyed at Hirrn. She sounded almost exactly like the doctor that had supervised him on his rotation in the Emergency Room.

_:It was at the behest of Halla—:_ Michael could see the Companion called Regin shaking his head and trying to draw himself up.

_:You can just stick a turnip in it, Regin,_: Hirrn twisted her head around to glare at the stallion. _:Your Chosen may be the Queen of this country, but that is absolutely no excuse for you collection of idiots to come up with hare-brained schemes and execute them with as-much as a by-your-leave!_:

_:Hardly hare-brained—:_ Dadero objected, only to find himself the subject of the kyree Healer's formidable temper.

She stalked over to stand in front of him and bristled at the Groveborn in a way that indicated that she wasn't at all impressed by what Dadero's faint _presence_ (and Michael's suddenly informative memory) indicated about him. _:Hare-brained is _exactly_ what I'd call this.:_ She said firmly. _:You, Groveborn, have just imperiled the life of one of your precious Heralds-to-be simply because you were all too impatient to consider the ramifications of your actions.:_

_:I would like to know why you feel it is necessary to fling around such accusations, Healer Hirrn?_: Dadero's sense of presence increased— like feeling a thunderstorm building— and his 'voice' sounded disapproving.

Michael wondered if the Companion and the kyree would start actually fighting with each other, or whether they'd stick to exchanging verbal ripostes. The kyree certainly _looked_ as if she wouldn't be adverse to chewing on something in order to make her point.

As if to prove this line of speculation, the kyree curled her lip briefly, showing her impressive looking teeth. _:You've just let Yaul stick a whole load of memories and foreign thoughts into the head of someone who not only wasn't _prepared_ for what you were doing, but hadn't even given the most obtuse kind of permission! Incidentally—:_ here, the kyree shot a significant look at Michael, _:—you chose to try this foolishness without the presence— or even _knowledge_ of a Healer!_:

Dadero looked as if he was about to reply, but Hirrn ploughed onwards. _:Don't you try getting sanctimonious on me, Mister Groveborn because I'll damn well bite your nose off and make you eat it.:_

"She will, you know," Michael started and glanced sideways; the young man that had arrived with the kyree (the one he'd mentally labelled as Mumble-sneeze earlier) was kneeling next to him and offering a slightly embarrassed smile. "Try and bite Dadero," he clarified, seeing Michael's puzzled look. "It's her standard threat and everyone used to think that she was bluffing until she took a chunk out of my uncle a few years ago." A strange expression crossed Mumble-sneeze's face and Michael got the impression that the young man was trying not to laugh. Obviously he did not get on with his uncle.

"You know, she complained about being unable to get the taste out of her mouth for a solid _week_ afterwards," he added, after a moment. "I'm not sure which was the _worse_ patient; my uncle with the bite wound, or Hirrn after she was told that the _only_ way she was leaving the room was if she drank a collection of brews to ward off food poisoning. I'm Trannen Ashkevron, by the way— although most people call me Tran, unless I'm in trouble."

"Oh… I— uh, Michael," Michael offered somewhat inanely, his attention still fixed on Hirrn; who was now threatening to educate Yaul on morals and ethics by chewing off his antlers and having one of her students forcibly stick them where the sun— most emphatically— did _not_ shine.

"Hirrn has that effect on people," Tran observed sagely. "Don't worry, it passes. Do you want me to take that?" The Healer gestured towards the still-uncorked bottle that Michael was in severe danger of pouring into one of his shoes, removing it from the young man's slack grip before Michael could really register what he was being asked.

The dyheli and the kyree were now glaring at each other with near-identical murderous expressions and Michael got the distinct impression that the greater part of their… conversation… was happening at a— volume?— level?— that he was not privy to. Judging by the way the Companions were occasionally wincing, and generally acting like spectators in the great sport of Insult Tennis, this was a _good_ thing.

_:—moral standards of a mentally retarded bark-beetle!_: The occasionally audible insults compounded that opinion.

"Yaul and Hirrn don't get on with each other at the best of times," Tran seemed to have majored in mind reading. "And, well; this isn't exactly the best of times." The Healer's attention was caught by the young trainee shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot, as if she wanted to leave, but feared that doing so without permission wound result in her being trampled and bitten. Possibly at the same time. "Jenna, I think Halth was heading over to the distillery, he'll probably need you there."

"Thanks, Tran!" Jenna gasped gratefully, then spun on her heels and vanished at an almost run, before any of the argumentative not-animals could notice. Michael wished he could follow her.

Trannen looked sideways at Michael. "Her bark is worse than her bite, honest," he said. Michael would have believed him more if the Healer hadn't sounded as if he was trying to convince _himself _as well as the foreigner.

"Right…" Michael said, for lack of anything better to say. Then he was distracted by the sudden sensation of someone— or something— looming over him. Giff, in all his multiply contused glory, was standing close to the two seated men.

_:Um, heyla.:_ Giff lowered his head slightly and looked embarrassed. _:Don't take this the wrong, um, way, but… please don't hit me any more, alright?_:

"Okay…" Michael conceded, at the same time that Trannen squinted up at the Companion.

"Is that your Companion? Hirrn said that you'd been Chosen and that was how you got here."

Michael looked at Giff, then crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm somewhat sketchy about the details," he said.

Giff, who had perked his ears up and looked somewhat helpful, deflated once more. _:I am, you know,_: he said, _:your Companion, I mean… um.:_ Michael's shiny new memories of helpfulness indicated that such an admission should be something authoritative and to be marvelled over. Giff made it sound like an apology.

Michael wasn't entirely sure he was ready to face— let alone accept with open arms— the ramifications these people seems to layer onto the word 'Chosen' and, actually, that brought something to mind… something _about_ his mind, actually. "Why," Michael looked from Tran to Giff, "am I suddenly able to understand _you_, hear _you_, and have all this in-depth knowledge about things that I've never heard of in my life?"

In the background, Hirrn and Yaul were still arguing, although it seemed to have devolved into a posturing match now. Yaul was winning in the _looming_ stakes, but Hirrn was managing to be unequivocally carnivorous back at the dyheli.

Tran blinked and looked uncertainly at Michael. "They didn't warn you beforehand?"

Giff produced an embarrassed throat-clearing sound. Except for the part where it echoed purely in Michael's mind. It was somewhat akin to what Michael imagined having a dodgy sink U-bend stuck inside his ear would feel like. _:Ah, we couldn't actually communicate with you at all; your shields are very good you know— so we, well Yaul, had no choice except to take you by surprise once your shields opened a bit.:_

Regin tried to intercede and nearly got a hoof in the face, and teeth in a leg, for his troubles. The Monarch's Companion apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valour and retreated behind the Groveborn to resume a purely spectator-like role in the burgeoning argument.

"My 'shields'?" Michael looked confused. Maybe this whole 'magical translation' thing that seemed to be happening inside his head wasn't all that great; he hadn't understood more than half of what Giff had said. He became aware that both the Companion and the Healer were giving him incredulous looks.

"You don't know what shields are?" Tran's tone of voice was disbelieving. "But I can see yours practically without even invoking Other Sight, and I usually have to trance to see anything like that!"

_Yeah, this whole translation thing is definitely broken,_ Michael thought cynically. "Apparently I don't, since I'm asking," he said out loud, his arms tightening defensively across his chest.

"Shields are… well, a mental barrier is the best way to put it, I guess… that you use to um… shield your mind from others and vice versa." Tran looked at Michael. "I'm not entirely sure how to explain them to you, maybe your Companion can help. What's his name, by the way?"

"I, uh—"

_:My name is Giff,_: the Companion supplied. _:You'll have to tell him; Companions tend to only speak to their Chosen and other Companions, although if we do break the Silence, it's to talk to another Herald.:_

"What?" Despite the positive _flock_ of associated memories that Giff's little speech spawned in Michael's mind, he still felt fully justified in being completely at sea. "He say's he's called Giff, and so far all he's doing is confusing me."

_:Sorry.:_ Giff gained a hang-dog expression.

Tran looked as if he was stifling a laugh. "You two are the strangest newly-Chosen pair I've met."

Giff snorted. _:He's calling _us_ strange, when he's the one who had a kyree for a mentor when he was a trainee.:_

Michael groaned and closed his eyes. "You're not making sense!" he protested. "You're giving me a headache—hey," the young man blinked and gained an almost comical expression of surprise. His killer headache had gone away and he hadn't even noticed.

Trannen correctly interpreted the look and held up the flask, shaking it so the liquid inside sloshed about. "Concentrated alem lily and mallow root extract, boiled up with willow bark; tastes like hoof shavings, but is great at getting rid of headaches."

"…oh," was the only thing Michael could think of to say.

_:Sorry.:_ Giff said again, at the same time. _:Um… the headache was because Yaul used a dyheli trick to give you Valdemaran— that's the language of Valdemar— and also some basic knowledge of things like what Heralds and Companions and Healers are…_:

Michael gave Giff a blank look, and Tran snorted with what sounded like amusement.

"I'm guessing by your expression that your Giff is being all Companion-mystical at you?" He asked, then, without waiting for a reply, "it could be worse, you know. This could be Karse and you could have been picked up by a Firecat; then you'd get the mysticism _and_ a healthy dose of sarcasm." The Healer trailed off and his eyes flickered towards Hirrn for a moment. The kyree was currently vibrating with righteous indignation as she apparently got an earful from Yaul. "Of course, you don't always need a Firecat to get that."

For perhaps the first time since he had woken up and had his hind brain brutally assaulted by the daylight, Michael found his mind curiously unforthcoming about an unfamiliar word. "What is a 'Firecat'?" He asked slowly; not entirely sure if he wanted to hear the answer, as it would most likely confuse him even _more._

Tran pointedly looked up at the young Companion stallion. "I'll leave that up to you," he said, before standing up and brushing flecks of dirt from his robes with one hand. "I'd better go and remind Hirrn that she left a ward full of scald and burn victims under the supervision of two assistant-Healers when she came haring out here to chew everyone's ears off," the Healer cast his eyes upwards, to the rapidly darkening sky, "and to point out that the day isn't getting any longer." With that, the dark haired young man, nodded decisively and began walking over towards the kyree, dyheli, and two spectating Companions.

_:Ahem,_: Giff made that funny clearing-throat-in-the-head sound again and Michael turned to look at him. The Companion sidled a few steps closer and Michael could feel him warily gauging Michael's response to this action. When Michael failed to thump him one, Giff relaxed slightly. _:Firecats are the Karsite equivalent of Companions—:_

Michael blinked as a detailed image of a large looking orange and white cat inserted itself in front of his attention.

_:—Ridan, the current Son of the Sun… er, the ruler of Karse… has one.:_ Giff trailed off for a moment. _:Karse is to the south of Valdemar, and we're both parties to the Alliance.:_

_Well, _Michael thought cynically, _I guess I understood _some _of that._ His attention was caught by Trannen waving his arms around and stepping in between Hirrn and Yaul.

"—a ward full of patients from the explosion in the tanner's quarter this afternoon—" the young man was saying loudly and slowly. "I'm sure you can finish this discussion _later_, right?"

Regin rolled his eyes and appeared to have made a comment, judging by the way the Groveborn reacted to him.

"Couldn't I hear them before?" Michael asked Giff. "The other ho—Companions, I mean."

_:Could you?_: Giff looked faintly surprised. _:I suppose that we weren't really shielding before you woke up.:_

A sigh. _Great— _more_ sentences that make no sense._ Michael thought sourly.

_:I'm sor—:_ Giff apology was suddenly broken off, and he swung his head around to stare off at nothing, his entire posture rigid. Regin and Dadero were in identical postures; staring in the same direction as Giff.

Michael uncrossed his arms and leaned sideways to see what the three Companions were so intent on. It appeared to be a perfectly ordinary garden wall, parts of it obscured by a leafy green creeper. He looked in askance to Tran, but the Healer— and Hirrn and Yaul— were watching the three Companions with intense expressions.

"What is going on—?"

The rest of Michael's question was drowned out by the sudden tolling of a bell. Despite there being no clock-tower or anything similar nearby, the deep, almost painful, sound was loud enough to reverberate in Michael's ears and send an unexplained chill down his spine. It felt like someone was pouring iced water into his very bones.

The Companions suddenly moved as one; ears flattening as they nervously shifted from foot to foot.

_:Who?_: Hirrn's short question made no sense to Michael. He was therefore surprised when— not only was she answered— but that the answer came from Dadero, and Michael could somehow hear him again.

_:Zica and Nattan—:_ the Groveborn tossed his head and looked agitated, pawing at the grass with one fore-hoof. _:We have to go to the Grove—:_

_:Sheka!_: Michael may not have recognised the language, but Hirrn's tone of voice and expression made it abundantly clear that it was a curse word. _:Tran—_: The kyree pointed her nose at her assistant, _:you have to go and find Luci now, she's Empathic and—:_

"_Nattan!"_ The almost incoherent _shriek_ that echoed out from the bulk of the large building the garden was attached to made Michael wince involuntarily; the sheer amount of pain and despair in that single word was almost like a knife across his senses.

Hirrn's eyes widened, and she produced an explosive stream of expletives, before springing around and setting off for the nearest doorway at a flat-out run. _:Trannen! Get a move on!_: The kyree vanished through the open doorway, Tran running after her, his flaring robes making him look like a large green bird of ill-omen.

_:I—:_ Giff looked distressed; bobbing his head from close to Michael's shoulder, to pointing his nose off in the same direction he'd been staring in a moment earlier.

As Michael wondered what on earth—_ although I suppose the whole point is that I'm _not _on earth anymore—_ was going on, Dadero swung his head around and fixed first Giff, then Michael, with a piercing blue gaze that was like no kind of scrutiny Michael had ever experienced in his life.

_:You will come with us,_: the Groveborn said, _:both of you, now.:_

Regin was already halfway across the garden, heading for an open wicket gate, by the time that Michael stumbled to his feet, prompted by the _command_ that the Groveborn's voice carried. Without really knowing why, the young man found himself walking quickly towards the same gate; Giff walking by his side, and Dadero a few lengths ahead of them.

_Really… I'd love to know what the _Hell_ is going on…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Original characters, the plot line and the general outbreaks of _strange_ belong to etcetera-cat. Trannen Ashkevron and Shadowflame k'Saurai were originally thought up by _Cat McDougall_. I stole them, because I'm like that.

**Notes:** Worryingly, I actually know where this story is going.

**Chapter Seven.**

**_A Council of a different sort – Walking sticks and their vital role as instruments of diplomatic discussion – An observation about soft furnishings – Apparently, this is diplomacy_**

The sun, whilst not completely fled from the sky, was certainly hanging on to the horizon by nothing more than the skin of its metaphorical teeth. Dusk was well and truly established, shadows stretching long from everything, creating spiky and distorted negative images across the grounds.

The strange half-light was not at all comforting and Giff had to keep on resisting the urge to sidestep and shy away from the encroaching shadows, _despite_ this being the Grove, and therefore about the safest place a Companion (or Herald) could _be_. Giving himself an internal shake, Giff turned his attention back to the meeting that Dadero had convened as soon as the non-Companions had vanished back to the Palace for assorted emergency Council sessions.

_This_ was something that not even the Heralds usually saw; the Companion equivalent of the High Council and it was the first time that Giff himself had any part to play that didn't involve skulking on the sidelines and eavesdropping. Given that roughly half of the Companions in the loose circle were staring at him, with expressions that ranged from utter confusion (a Companion called Fitch) right the way through to verging-on-malevolence (Kit— who else?), Giff was rather completely convinced that he preferred the sidelines.

_:—happened to Zica?_: That was Adakimba, Companion to the Seneschal's Herald, his Mindvoice raw with grief. Not surprising considering Zica had been his younger, much doted over, sister.

Giff pricked up his ears— nor was he alone. He suspected that most of the Companions were in the same boat as himself; they'd felt Zica die, _after_ she had lost Nattan, and they'd felt that it had been painful but, beyond that… nothing. Dadero, however, had certain advantages over 'normal' Companions.

_:They were attacked,_: the Groveborn said slowly, continuing before anyone could voice any angry comments. _:Zica did not get a clear look at whatever it was, and therefore neither did I.:_

_:Then we know nothing,_: Adakimba sounded defeated, his drooping head and flattened ears mirroring his tone of defeat.

_:That is not true,_: Dadero corrected. _:It was some kind of animal, of that much I am sure, and I am also sure that it was nothing produced by nature… not even tainted nature such as the Pelagir-lands.:_

_That_ statement certainly caused no-few widened eyes and unsettled snorts. It was Kit, typically, that managed to speak first.

_:A mage construct, then?_: She fixed her attention on Dadero, waiting for his affirmative nod before continuing. _:From who? There _are_ no dark-inclined mages of any great power within the bounds of the Alliance.:_

Now Dadero did look defeated; he sighed heavily and dropped his head slightly. _:I do not know,_: he admitted. _:I have warned _all_ Companions out on Circuit to be on guard and to expect trouble, however.:_

_:All of them?_: Giff was appalled to realise that it had been himself who asked that question.

Dadero turned an unreadable gaze onto the young Companion, and Giff wished suddenly that the ground would open up and swallow him. The ground didn't oblige.

_:Yes, Companion Giff.:_ Dadero said simply, rather than biting off Giff's head as he— and several others— were expecting.

_:May I suggest—:_ the tone of Mindvoice was acidic, authoritative, and belonged to Kit, _:—that rather than listening to this _fascinating_ conversation, that we actually pay attention to what is going on with the High Council at this very moment?_:

Dadero gave the mare a faintly reproving look, before wordlessly projecting the 'offer' of the kind of rapport that the Companions could use to collectively eavesdrop on any group that contained Heralds— whether or not their own Herald was actually there, if they even had one.

Rapidly, all of those present linked into the growing meld— those with Heralds that had seats on the Council adding their own contribution to the collective impression of the events unfolding in the Council Chamber.

As Michael was currently reading as _blank wall, no-one here_ to Giff, the young Companion was forced to rely on the meld for information.

It was an unsatisfying position to say the least.

—0—

Without being sure in any way _how _such a thing had happened, Michael had ended up being carried off with the 'crowd' when the actually _human_ people (as far as he could tell, at any rate) had finally left the field. The ever-so-helpful voice inside his head, put there courtesy of the dyheli, was insistent that Michael capitalise the 'f'.

He resisted. Petty, but likely to be the only kind of victory he was going to experience any time soon.

Once off the grass and walking through what looked like the cleanest stable yard ever to exist, Michael had found himself being appropriated by a wrinkled old man (wearing the completely white clothes that indicated a 'Herald') who caught hold of his elbow in one hand and began to deftly steer both of them over towards a large building, built out of grey stone. Despite looking about ninety, and the guaranteed first place winner in any number of wrinkled old men competitions, the grip on Michael's arm was surprisingly strong, and the young man wouldn't like to place any bets of being able to beat the old man in a fight.

Likelihood of being trampled by an irate white horse completely non-withstanding.

Once inside the building— and this was the first time Michael could say that he'd ever been inside a genuine medieval castle. It was warmer than he expected— the old man cleared his throat and introduced himself.

"Gillan," he said shortly, glancing sideways at Michael before clarifying. "Queen's Own Herald Gillan, Chosen by Dadero. _He_ is of the opinion that we should trust you, the infallibility of Companion's Choice and all that."

"Who?" Michael asked in a bewildered fashion.

"Dadero," Gillan gave Michael another sideways look, this one heavy on the scepticism, as if he couldn't quite believe how dense Michael was being.

_Well, let _him_ trying waking up in a drug trip where all the animals talk and have a degree in sarcasm, and then be told that it's what passes for _reality _around here._ Michael thought rebelliously.

Gillan cleared his throat and made a non-committal sound. "This is the Council Chamber," he said as they reached an ornate, carved stone doorway. The dark oak doors were already wide open and there seemed to be a veritable _circus_ milling around in the corridor outside. "Halla requested that you be present at this session, since it does concern your… presence… in Valdemar."

Stifling a groan, Michael rubbed at his face with one hand. _Well, mister Queen's Own Herald Gillan sure sounds like a fan of the U. S. of A._

It was amazing how much respect the stark looking white uniform seemed to generate. People certainly cleared a path for Gillan— and, perforce, Michael, who was now trailing in the wake of the grey haired Herald— allowing him to stride into the small room that served as an ante-chamber to the actual Council Hall.

More than a little bemused by the multitude of bright and conflicting (sometimes in the same outfit) colours and costumes, Michael wasn't entirely looking where he was going when he tripped over something on the floor and careened sideways, hitting the back of a person who appeared to be wearing a cloak made entirely out of feathers.

"I, uh… sorry—" Michael stumbled backwards, apologising, then froze. He hadn't walked in to someone wearing a feathered cloak. He'd walked into someone wearing _feathers_, and the reason that they were wearing feathers was because Michael was looking at one of their wings.

Feeling as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head, Michael managed to track his attention _up_, towards the face of whomever (or whatever. Whatever was always a valid option in Valdemar) he'd been apologising too.

"_Eep!"_ It wasn't a pretty sound, nor was it a manly sound. It was a squeak. It was the kind of sound that a severely asthmatic mouse would have been ashamed of.

Michael felt entirely justified in producing it because the face that owned the wing he'd walked in to happened to have a meat-hook shaped beak the size of his _head_ in the middle of it.

The eyes above the beak with a dark green-gold colour and full of amusement as the creature regarded Michael with open curiosity. It was covered head to toe in feathers that ranged from a pale grey to markings in a deep charcoal colour. In addition, someone appeared to have painted bits of it black and silver. He wondered idly if it had objected, and if it'd eaten the person afterwards.

A hand landed heavily on Michael's right shoulder and he started with surprise, attention jerked away from the gryphon— _thank you _very_ much, inner-dyheli translation thing—_ and back onto Gillan. The elderly Herald looked annoyed.

"I apologise, Tarii," Gillan said in an exasperated tone of voice.

The gryphon sat back slightly on its haunches (at which point Michael realised that the creature _was_ in fact sitting down, despite it doing a pretty fine job of looming over every other human in the vicinity) and rumbled quietly. Belatedly, Michael realised that the sound was _laughter_.

_Great, maybe if I'm _really_ lucky, it'll start talking inside my head like all the others…_

"That isss quite alrrright, Queen'sss Own," despite the hisses and trills that overlaid the words, Michael found that he could understand what the gryphon was saying quite clearly.

He wasn't entirely sure that this was a reassuring thing.

The fact that the gryphon hadn't pounced on him and torn him limb from limb? That was reassuring.

So was the fact that it seemed entirely disinclined to babble away inside his head like the horses (_Companions!_ shouted the inner-dyheli translator. Michael ignored it), deer (_dyheli!_) and giant killer wolves (_kyree!_).

Being able to understand the actual vocal speech of something that was so very obviously _not_ human it wasn't true? Not reassuring. Not reassuring at all.

"Thisss, then, would be yourrr new trrrainee, the one that isss causssing all thisss—" the gryphon waved one fore claw airily around at the room, trying to pick a suitable description, "—interrressst?" It finally decided. It cocked its head to one side, flicked a large, charcoal-black and molten-silver colour, ear tuft and looked quizzically from Michael to Gillan and back again.

Gillan snorted something inaudible and Michael felt his face get hot. It was perfectly obvious that the old man didn't approve of him in the slightest.

"Yes, this is Michael, Chosen by Giff," Gillan said in a perfunctory fashion. "Michael, this is Tarii Vesakae; Silver Gryphon scout and aide to the Kaled'a'in-Haighlei Ambassador."

"Aide," Tarii mused, "I like that terrrm."

"It's more diplomatic than 'paid to chew on people who offend the Ambassador', Tarii," the new speaker was a youngish looking man with deeply golden skin and blue eyes. He was dressed head to toe in a stylised black uniform, a single silver badge pinned to his chest, and his hair was dyed the same black and silver as Tarii's wing feathers and ear tufts.

"Tccah," Tarii shook her head. "Diplomacssy isss sssomething _you_ posssssessss little of," she told the young man, before pointedly ignoring him and fixing her attention on Michael.

He had a sudden, uncomfortable insight into how a rabbit felt in the moment before something ate it.

"Pay no attensstion to Goldleaf, he thinksss that he isss funny. It isss a delusssion that the Healerrrsss have not yet found a currre forrr." The gryphon rolled her eyes expressively, serenely ignoring the poke in the side that Goldleaf gave her.

There was a brief lull in the conversation and Michael felt moved to contribute something. He managed a faint sounding "oh."

Gillan snorted once more and caught hold of Michael's arm. "Time to sit down and get this mess on and going," he said shortly. "Hopefully the esteemed Council members will take the hint if at least _some_ people sit down.

Tarii and Goldleaf traded looks. "I will go and find Ambassador Amalogi," Goldleaf decided. Both the Kaled'a'in and the gryphon nodded to Gillan and Michael, then vanished into the mingling crowd.

Using the grip he had just above Michael's elbow, the Queen's Own steered him into the large Council Hall and deposited him on a plain, low-backed wooden chair that had apparently been provided for precisely that purpose. Once he was sure that Michael was sitting down— and would _stay_ there— Gillan pursed his lips and bustled back out in the direction of the corridor.

Left to his own devices, Michael cautiously looked around at the room he had been deposited in. It looked like every single Hollywood stereotype of a castle Hall _ever_. There was lots of stone. And wood panelling. And banners; if it could be used to hang something off (and the decorator of this room seemed to have a broad definition of this that included randomly nailing wooden poles everywhere), then there was something hanging off of it. A lot of it involved brocade and the kind of stylised heraldic creatures that looked as if they'd jumped fully formed out of Salvador Dali's sketchbook.

There was also a fireplace that was actually larger than the bathroom in Michael's apartment in Chicago. It was swept out and there was no fire burning— there wasn't even a fire laid.

The majority of the room was taken up by a trio of large, almost bench like, tables that had been arranged in a horse-shoe shape. The fourth side of the square consisted almost entirely of the largest pile of cushions and soft furnishings that Michael had ever seen outside a haberdashery (his ex-girlfriend had convinced him that they needed to help her mother pick out linens. The resultant humanitarian disaster had been one of the main reasons that Michael had finished with her). Whoever had piled the cushions and so on up had apparently put some thought into it; the fabrics were all shades of blue and grey that harmonised together.

They also matched the tapestries and hangings that covered the wall opposite Michael. The table set in front of this, the most decorated wall, was raised on a slight dais. Obviously, that was where the important people sat. Michael's chair was set between the bottom edge of one of the flanking tables and one end of the pile of cushions, the better for people to stare at him in a scary fashion, he supposed.

Noise at the doorway to the ante-chamber caught his attention, and Michael craned his head around. The circus from the corridor was being to move it collective rear into the room. The raised table was quickly colonised by people who were clad in either Heraldic white, or in archaic— _it's a medieval fantasy land, Michael. Of _course_ it's archaic!_— robes in either green, red or a warm golden-brown. The people taking their places at the other two tables were dressed in clothing that ranged from what Michael (or rather, _Hollywood_) thought of as 'typical medieval/castle wear' right the way through to over-the-top arrangements that could very well have been picked, fully formed, off of a tree somewhere.

The rainbow of colours produced was not something that Michael would like to look at if he was hung over.

A moving flash of silver in the corner of Michael's eye was the gryphon— Tarii. She was walking over to the pile of cushions, deep in conversation (at least, Michael presumed it was conversation; he didn't understand the strangely musical language the gryphon was speaking) with a kyree that he recognised.

The pair settled near to Michael and, as the large wolf-like creature fixed its eyes on him, he realised why he recognised it. It was Hirrn, the 'Healer' he'd last seen arguing loudly with Yaul.

_Speaking of the devil…_ Yaul also seemed to be privy to this Council; the dyheli had just walked through the door, his cloven hooves clicking on the stone flooring as he walked over. Yaul glanced at Hirrn, who hadn't yet seen him, and elected to go and stand at the far end of the spread of cushions.

Michael was quite glad about that; he didn't think his nerves were up to another shouting match happening inside his head.

Another kyree, something that looked like a five foot tall bipedal lizard, and an absolutely _huge_ cat that had vaguely lynx-like markings, joined the others already seated on (or standing around) the drift of blue and grey cushions. They all gave the young man curious looks, and the lizard pulled out what looked like a notepad and some kind of pencil, before propping itself in a comfortable position and licking the end of its pencil.

Darting his eyes around the room, in an attempt to look around without drawing undue attention to himself, Michael noted that pretty much all of the seats were now filled. As he had predicted, no few of the people in the seats were staring at him.

It was worse than being in theatre with Dr. Jefferson (a big-shot consultant surgeon who felt that it was against the law for him to operate unless he had the eleven members of his _personal_ theatre team instead of the usual theatre team, and who's operating sessions consequently covered _every_ aspect of the word 'theatre') on a busy day.

An intelligent looking woman, who was sitting at the raised table, next to Gillan, cleared her throat. The sound was quiet, but it never the less garnered the attention of the room, and silence fell. Resting both of her hands on the table, the woman leaned forwards slightly. Her pointed features had a cast of tiredness about them, and her several wisps of her dark blonde hair had escaped from the utilitarian knot the body of it was confined in. She opened her mouth, about to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of the door to the ante-chamber being pushed roughly open.

The hinges squeaked loudly, drawing the attention of all of the Council, as well as Michael.

As soon as the door was open far enough, an outlandishly dressed figure stumped in, her expression fixed in a scowl and the heavy stick she used to aid her walking thumping heavily against the floor in a counterpoint to the woman's limping steps.

"Ambassador Shadowflame," the woman said in a friendly tone of voice. "I'm glad that you could join us."

"Hah," the woman snorted rudely and stalked towards the single empty seat left for her; next to Goldleaf, a dark-skinned man to whom the scout was deferring to, and a woman with intricately beaded black hair and an outfit that was similar in cut to Shadowflame's. Whereas the unknown woman's clothing were brightly coloured (in keeping with the _functional cone cells are for the weak!_ mentality of the rest of the council), Shadowflame's outfit was done up entirely in bland greens and browns. It looked— to Michael's eyes— remarkably similar to camouflage gear.

"I would have been _faster_," Shadowflame continued, in a hostile tone, "except that the blithering idiot that built the ekele saw fit to bury it out in the hinterlands of that wretched field your Companions prance about in."

The whole time she was talking, the Ambassador was limping onwards, her walking stick striking the ground with a measured beat. It almost sounded like the baseline for a tune. A very specific tune. All the Ambassador needed were the Storm Troopers and the black helmet.

Michael bit down on his lip and fought the _completely_ inappropriate urge to laugh.

Pulling out her chair with a loud scrape, Shadowflame took her seat with ill grace and glared around at the Council Chamber. "I _presume_ there is a point to this fashion parade?" No-one else reacted to Shadowflame's complete… lack… of diplomacy, so Michael concluded that she was probably usually that abrasive.

Realising that didn't help his urge to hum the Imperial March in the _slightest_.

"If we could have some order, please." It was a statement, not a request.

True silence fell over the room as expectant faces were turned towards the speaker; the blonde woman at the raised table.

"Thank you," she nodded her head shortly. "We have rather a lot to cover today and we're not exactly sure how much time we have. As some of you may be aware, one of our Companions has recently Chosen under somewhat… unique… circumstances." The woman's blue eyes flickered in Michael's direction briefly, as somewhat predictable out roar broke out in the room.

"Unique is certainly one way to put it," the exotic looking woman with the beaded hair, sitting next to Goldleaf.

"It is the easiest way to put it, Foxdance," Gillan said, not bothering to lean forwards. "It sounds more under control than 'bloody hindering great disaster',"

_:Have you been taking lessons in diplomatic language from Shadowflame, Queen's Own?_: Hirrn sat up and cocked her head in the Herald's direction, ignoring the loud snort that echoed from the Tayledras Ambassador's direction.

Shadowflame snorted and tapped her fingers on the table in front of her, a set expression on her face.

"No, Healer Hirrn, my patience has merely been well and truly tried in the past two days," Gillan said to the kyree, who flicked one ear in an unconcerned fashion.

"Thank you, Gillan," the woman with the blonde hair sighed. She looked tired. Michael wondered who she was— she certainly seemed to have more than a little authority. "If we could continue…?"

Michael suddenly found himself the focus of the woman's attention. He resisted the sudden urge to hunch over on himself, despite the fact that he could feel further pairs of eyes fastening on him.

"I am sorry that we have not had time for introductions before this moment," the woman said. "As you may have gathered, we already know a little bit about you, Michael, and I hope that Yaul has given you something of an understanding about the situation you are now facing with us."

She made his name sound Slavic. Michael blinked and wondered if he should say anything into the brief silence. The woman began speaking again, however.

"I am Halla, Chosen of Regin and Queen of Valdemar."

Michael wondered if his eyes were going to fall out of his head. _Queen?_ He was being talked to by _royalty_?

He'd ended up in some crackpot land that actually _had_ functional royalty that did more than wave occasionally and marry their own cousins?

_I think my headache is coming back…_

"This is all very nice and touchy-feely, but don't we have more… pressing… matters to attend to?" Shadowflame sounded extremely bored, and was now leaning back in her chair, absentmindedly bouncing her stick off of the floor.

Michael winced. On the edge of his hearing, he heard the gryphon make a trilling sound and he wondered if that was how birds sighed.

"Quite," that was the woman Gillan had called Foxdance. "I'm sure that we all heard your Companions ringing their Bell earlier, and _I_ for one, can't help but wonder why such an occurrence has precipitated this meeting." She shrugged. "A Herald dying is not exactly an uncommon event."

"Ambassador Foxdance I must protest strongly—"

"I do not feel—"

"If it wasn't for the Heralds then the Alliance—"

Michael flinched as the room erupted with a burst of sound that made the previous one seem like a whisper at the bottom of a well. Broadly speaking, it seemed to be a case of the People in White vs. Everyone Else.

"All I was merely pointing out was the sad but true fact that Heralds _die_! I really don't see why—"

Given that he now had one of the horses that qualified one as a Person in White, Michael supposed that he should side with them.

_:You're all behaving like adolescents.:_ The thing about Mindspeech was that it cut over any mere _vocal_ shouts. Michael glanced sideways at Hirrn, in time to catch her curling her lip.

"Like you can comment, _Healer_ Hirrn—"

_:I am more than qualified enough to comment when people are behaving in a fashion obvious enough even to the blind.:_ The kyree said acidly.

Michael cast around. He wasn't entirely sure whether he was looking for something to fix his attention on or an escape route.

_They'd probably make the gryphon sit on me._ Michael sighed. The Queen was sitting with one elbow on the table, her head resting on her hand as the argument blazed around her.

Her headache looked as bad as Michael's was becoming again, and he felt a stab of sympathy for the strange woman.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable as relating to the world of Velgarth in general, and the kingdom of Valdemar in specific is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. The possibly cracked-out, semi-AU weirdness of the plot can be firmly blamed on etcetera-cat, and the characters of Trannen Ashkevron and Ambassador Shadowflame used courtesy of Cat McDougall.

**Notes:** Would you believe I'm still introducing characters? Well, I am, so there. Plot-related things are happening concurrently, though, so there _is_ some actual progression ahead. I think. Also, the end of the chapter earns the rating.

**Chapter Eight.**

**_Hi, ho, Silver! Away! – You mean you're actually going to _explain_ something to me? – Satellite surveillance, Tayledras style – The hobbies of evil Blood-mage Adepts – All together now, scream!_**

The final score in the great game of People in White vs. Everyone Else in the Room had been nil-nil. Penalties and extra time had also resulted in a draw, and both sides had retreated to lick their metaphorical (and in the case of the unfortunate page who had gotten in the way of Shadowflame whilst she was Making A Point, _literal_) wounds.

Michael had actually found himself humming the Imperial March during this action; for some reason "The Empire Strikes Back" had sprung to mind.

And now he was standing, at _least_ as confused as before, in a field. In the dark.

At the advice— read _insistence_— of many of the People in White, no less. Apparently, Michael was supposed to be finding the irritating white horse that had kidnapped him and then Bonding With His Companion (the capital letters, as they seemed to be doing since about halfway through the _second_ major shouting match in the Council Hall, were just dropping in all over the place this evening).

Michael wasn't entirely sure that that was what he _wanted_ to be doing; but if it got him out of the vicinity of the assorted raving lunatics that seemed to make up the government, then it could only be a good thing. He'd also managed— again at the instructions of the People in White (namely, the Queen, who also appeared to be a Person in White)— to lose his ever-present guards.

That _was_ a good thing. Michael had been rather unnerved about being followed around everywhere by a pair of blue-clad men who appeared to have all the facial expression and personality of a pair of bricks, and who had swords. Sharp, pointy, _metal_ swords that were somehow a Hell of a lot more intimidating than a mere gun.

Not that he was no longer being watched; anything but. Although having a demented white horse talking in your head didn't make you crazy, what it _did _do (apart from severely limit your wardrobe choices) was indicate that you were impeachably trustworthy. Or something. At any rate; Michael's watchers were now… rather more unique.

_Because no-one seems to be able to do _anything _in this country without involving a talking animal._

The people in the Council meeting who'd looked like their clothing had been grown on trees (including the _delightful_ Ambassador Shadowflame) were all something called 'Hawkbrothers'. In the most literal sense. So now Michael could look forward to being followed around by a collection of birds, both night and day.

It was just as well that he'd never really been in to Alfred Hitchcock films, otherwise he suspected that he'd be developing a nervous tic (although the Companions, dyheli, kyree, gryphons and assorted _other_ 'animals' should be enough to do that).

At the moment, he thought it was some kind of owl, what with it being night time.

_I wish I could see as well as it can! _ Michael thought with exasperation. He'd never been anywhere where the black of night was _exactly_ that. _Jeez! Is it too much to ask for a little light pollution?_ He bit off a string of swear words as he found his _ninth_ pot hole in as many minutes.

_Bugger. This._

Limping slightly, Michael turned to walk back the way he came; the Palace was lit up, which was helpful, but he must have circled on himself slightly because when he reached the river to cross back over, there was a distinct lack of bridge. Stopping on the bank, Michael gave a dismayed groan. "Oh, _great,_" he muttered to himself, before glumly limping along the bank in search of something resembling a bridge.

The Palace was still on his left side (on the far side of the river, that is), and it didn't appear to be vanishing into the distance, so Michael was fairly sure that he wasn't walking— okay, _limping_— in completely the wrong direction. _So why isn't there a bridge?_

"Ack!" Michael stumbled and fell over forwards, grazing both hands on the shingle-like soil that made up the ground. Whilst there wasn't a bridge, there _was_ a large weeping willow tree, which he'd just walked straight in to and given himself the fright of his life. _I cannot seriously believe I just _said _'ack',_ Michael thought with a groan. In addition to the grazes now decorating his hands, Michael's knees also felt somewhat worse for wear. Arranging himself in a sitting position and examining them by touch, he discovered that the left knee was torn out of his jeans.

"Oh, _fantastic._" Michael growled, fully intent on starting in a vocalised tirade on just _how _and_ why_ his entire life had gone to Shit City via Alice's rabbit hole—

—and then something moved in the darkness under the willow tree.

"—the Hell!" Michael yelped, bringing his hands up into a defensive position. Not that he could actually _see_ anything, so it was a moot point.

A snort, a short distance in front of him, and the faint smell of horse, gave Michael a clue and he elected to use it. "Is that a C-Companion?"

_:One who was _quite_ enjoying the peaceful evening before it was so rudely interrupted, yes.:_ The voice inside Michael's head sounded a little bit like Hirrn; it was female, laden with sarcastic undertones, and had a faint roughness to its edges, but that was where the similarity ended. _This_ voice sounded like the owner had been handed a life full of lemons, was lacking a good lemonade recipe and was _really_ pissed off about it.

"Well, you know I didn't exactly _plan_ on falling over your tree," Michael snapped back, his irritation finally overflowing. "It's not exactly like this Godforsaken patch of undergrowth has _signs_ or anything!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Michael winced. _Oh great, now I really _am_ going to get trampled—_

He was shocked to suddenly hear laughter; faint, brief, and definitely cynical, but laughter.

Gravel shifted and crunched under hooves, and Michael was aware of something looming in front of him. _:You certainly have a short temper.:_ The voice observed. _:I'm guessing you must be the reason everyone and their mothers have got their tails in a knot?_:

Michael groaned. "Probably," he said listlessly, before snorting in a disgusted fashion. "Not that I exactly had any choice in the matter; I was walking home from the Seven-Eleven one minute, and next thing I know I've been kidnapped by a bloody _horse_ and have ended up in la-la-land!"

_:That's a rather novel response to being Chosen,_: the voice still sounded bitterly amused.

"Everyone is acting like I should be all happy and… I dunno…" Michael continued, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the sting of the grazes on his palms, "… mainly I'm just thinking that everyone here is falling off the edge of the insanity curve and that I'm going to be joining them pretty soon."

_:You really haven't a clue what is happening to you, have you?_: The voice sounded mildly curious.

"Apart from the fact that I _really _wish I was a crack addict, because this would all possibly make some sense?" Michael snorted. "No."

_:I thought I overheard Dadero telling the dyheli to give you a head full of 'An Introduction to Valdemar'?_:

Reflexively, Michael rubbed at his forehead and winced slightly. "Something which gave me a killer headache and made me even _more_ confused, yes," he muttered. "Is it too much to ask for a simple explanation in plain English?"

A slight shifting of gravel, as if whoever was standing near to him had just produced something similar to a shrug. _:No,_: the voice said. _:I could probably manage to un-honey-coat a simple explanation in Valdemaran— or rather, Mindspeech— though.:_

Michael opened his mouth, but then found that he couldn't think of anything to say.

Apparently, his silence was taken as acquiescence, as the Companion— she hadn't volunteered a name, and Michael was curiously shy about asking— proved that it wasn't just Giff who did the whole _I'm not actually speaking, but I'll make the throat clearing sound in your head _anyway. _ Because I can!_ thing.

_:So, you're currently sitting in the capital city of a kingdom called Valdemar. The main peacekeeping force in the country— apart from the army— is the Heraldic Circle.:_

Michael nodded slowly, then realised that it was dark and the Companion probably couldn't see—

_:Good. Heralds are picked— the proper term is 'Chosen'— by a Companion. Being Chosen is the only way to become a Herald, and most Choosings happen in early adolescence, although there are some exceptions. In addition to a certain set of character traits, Heralds also possess one or more Gifts.:_

Michael had figured out pretty quickly that he was a rather large 'exception'. "What are… Gifts?" he asked cautiously.

_:An inborn mental ability to manipulate the world at large; be it physical or spiritual.:_ The Companion replied promptly. _:For a long period of time Valdemar only possessed Mindmagic— which is the generic term for every Gift except for the Mage Gift— but that's really not relevant to you. Magic has been actively used in Valdemar— they even let them set up an independent Mage's Collegium—for about a century.:_

"Some… examples of Gifts?" Michael asked hopefully.

_:Thoughtsensing, Mindspeech; talking like this, the ability to Fetch objects from distant places, or to See things not within normal vision. Firestarting. Occasionally a degree of the Healing Gift or something like Empathy.:_ A snort in the darkness.

Michael blinked. _Right, so. Heralds are basically white-wearing, ESP-wielding psychic freaks. Wonderful._

_:That's a fairly accurate description, yes.:_

"How did—?" Michael jumped. "You're reading my mind?"

A loud sniff. _:You are _projecting_ at me.:_ The voice corrected sharply. _:I have absolutely _no_ desire to go voluntarily winnowing through some human's mind for juicy titbits.:_

"Uh," Michael felt his expression change to a faint frown. "Not even your Herald's?"

_:Hah,_: one hoof crunched gravel just in front of Michael's scraped knees and he could feel the Companion looking at him. _:I— do not have a Herald.:_

_Well hello there, foot! Nice to see you back in my mouth again!_ Michael groaned to himself. There had been a definite _edge_ to the Companion's last reply.

"I…uh… sorry," he offered lamely.

A disparaging sound. _:Quite.: _Silence reigned for a moment. _:All Heralds, Bards, Crown sanctioned non-Heraldic Mages and the vast majority of Healers are trained right here in Haven; in the linked Collegia.:_

"That sounds… totalitarian…"

_:It's served since the Founding of the kingdom,_: the Companion said.

"Oh," Michael searched for a subject that wouldn't include him insulting the Companion either personally _or_ culturally. "What are— I mean, do I have any… um, Gifts?"

The sensation of being stared at (and, oddly, _through_) intensified and Michael felt the hair on the back of his neck standing up. _:No,_: the Companion sounded surprised, _:I can't see that you do.:_

"But," Michael coughed, "you said I was… that you could hear what I was thinking, that I was, um, projecting?"

_:States of high emotion are enough to bolster the projections of the most ordinary person so that those whom are suitably attuned may pick them up.:_

Well, that put Michael in his place.

"Why _me_?" he asked plaintively. "You say I'm not Gifted— _fuck_, I'm not even from this damn _world_!" Inserting a _very_ English swear word into the middle of a Valdemaran sentence actually made said swear word sound worse. It was also as satisfying as _hell_.

_:You've probably heard this cliché multiple times, and from an assortment of self-important idiots, but it contains a grain of truth none the less. A Companion cannot Chose wrongly, and, concurrently; every Choosing is for a _reason_, however obscure that reason may be.:_ A deep exhalation; Michael could feel the slightly warmer air on his face, proof of just _how_ close to him the Companion was standing— and how bloody dark it was.

Then, on the edge of… well, Michael supposed it was still classed as 'hearing', even if the ears weren't involved. _:Even I have to admit that.:_ The Companion sounded unutterably sad.

Michael didn't really know what to say to that. He _had_ heard the first part (and yes, several of the people who had said it _did_ seem to have fallen out of the idiot tree and hit _many_ large branches on the way down) many times in the past day and a half, and he really wasn't sure that he was supposed to hear the last bit.

He was saved from trying to think of anything intelligent (or otherwise) to say, by the Companion suddenly moving; its hooves crunching as it turned around.

_:Your Companion is looking for you.:_

"Oh," Michael coughed, "yeah, they… um… told me to go spend some time with him… um."

_:But you got lost in the dark.:_ It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact.

"Yeah, well, you guys could stand to have a little light pollution around the place," Michael didn't really put any heat behind the words. For some reason he felt more akin to the nameless (and so far, essentially _invisible_) Companion than he could easily rationalise.

_:You wouldn't have found him anyway,_: the voice continued; Michael took the complete ignorance of his comment as some kind of approval, _:he was off with the rest of them in the Grove, having a meeting.:_

"Uh, meeting?"

A dry sounding snort. _:The High Council doesn't have the monopoly on standing around and flapping at each other whilst squawking nonsense.:_ An abrupt change of subject. _:I've told him that you are here, goodnight.:_

More crunching steps, then the rustling sound of willow branches being parted, accompanied by a swirl of night time breeze and the brief glimpse of an equine shape; a silhouette against the darkness. "Wait!" Michael said, scrambling to his feet, wincing as both his right ankle _and_ his left knee complained at him. "I don't even know your name—?"

_:Uh… it's Giff.:_ Michael's Companion sounded confused. _:But you already knew that, um…_:

_Great, just what I need._ Michael sighed.

"Not you," he said clearly, "the _other_ Companion, the… mare?... who was just here. She never told me her name."

Now that he was concentrating— and perhaps, talking with the other Companion had accustomed him to the oddness of Mindspeech— Michael could pick up on some of the overtones and traces of emotion that accompanied Giff's words.

Giff sounded confused still. _:Well, Companions only really talk to their Chosen—:_ he started to say, but Michael interrupted.

"She said she didn't _have_ a Chosen, _and_ she actually explained some things so that they made some _sense_."

_:She _talked_ to you?_: Giff practically yelped, shock radiating from his words. _:But— that— she's— Datti barely ever talks to other _Companions_, let alone people!_:

"She's called Datti, then?" Michael asked.

_:That's her name, yes,_: Giff said, _:but for as long as I— and my parents— can remember, she's always been called… the lone Companion.:_ he sounded uncomfortable.

"Who's Tonto, then?" Michael asked facetiously; Giff's explain-not mysticism was _really_ beginning to piss him off.

_:Ton— Tonto?_:

Twentieth Century pop-culture related sarcasm was_ completely_ wasted on neo-Mediaeval talking horses. "Never mind," Michael sighed, before changing the subject. "Look, can we go somewhere where I don't feel like my retinas have gone on a holiday?"

Giff didn't even have to voice his non-understanding, and Michael stifled another sigh.

"Can we go somewhere with some _light_, please?" he clarified.

_:Oh— Oh, of course.:_ Giff sounded apologetic. _:I forgot that humans don't have good night vision.:_

Michael snorted. "I have perfectly _fine_ night vision," he retorted, whilst sliding one foot forward and waving both hands in front of him in an attempt to locate his Companion.

One hand smacked into something soft and warm. _:Ow!_: Giff exclaimed. _:You have an _obsession_ with hitting my nose.: _he complained.

"Sorry," Michael apologised, "but it's not like I can see where I'm going."

A sigh. _:Well, I suppose that you didn't mean it this time,_: Shifting sounds of movement close to Michael. _:I'm standing next to you, if you reach out with your right hand, you should touch my shoulder.:_

Michael tentatively waved his right hand out to the side; encountering Giff's shoulder almost immediately. "Okay."

_:Just keep hold and I'll walk us back to the Palace.:_ Giff said.

"Avoid the potholes," Michael insisted as the Companion walked slowly forwards, and he had to limp quickly to keep up. "One of my ankles already hates me."

_:And risk you turning another ankle and hitting me again? Of _course_ I'm going to avoid the potholes!_: Giff was, Michael realised after a moment, teasing him.

_Hmm…_ Michael wasn't entirely sure what to make of the unaccountably warm feeling that was growing in his chest, so he decided to ignore it.

—0—

The inn had been… adequate… but Enyivika was not the kind of person who would be content in making a common _ale_ house her punitive base of operations. Besides; it was no mean feat to construct a Gate all the way to the place that she was _really_ interested in and, at that, she'd only been able to Reach the southern-most part of the kingdom.

So, the solution was to move closer, obviously.

Another Gate (courtesy of the two shepherds and their flock of sheep that the darlings had found for her) had gotten herself, Dupe and the darlings into the mountain range known as the Comb, and a brief aerial scout by Stripe had located this rather impressive building. It looked like it had once been some kind of hunting lodge, much modified over the years, and then completely forgotten about, if the thick layer of dust on every interior surface was anything to go by. The roof also had several missing slates, and one exterior wall was bowing outwards alarmingly; the ground under the stone having shifted during some kind of earthquake in the past.

That suited Enyivika down to the ground, and she had immediately appropriated it and directed Dupe to start cleaning away enough dust from the floor to make a work-circle whilst the darlings went hunting for… fuel.

The location was perfect, but the building itself just wouldn't do.

Enyivika hummed happily to herself as she mentally mapped out what she was going to change the building to. With sufficient magical power and determination, one could accomplish practically _anything_.

Standing in the middle of what had apparently been the main public room Enyivika let her eyes drift from wall, to crumbling leather armchair, to solid stone fireplace, completely ignoring Dupe, who was haphazardly sweeping up dust in the far corner of the room.

_Sometimes, _Enyivika reflected, _it would be so much easier to find intelligent help if _obliterating_ said intelligence wasn't the only way to ensure obedience._ Not that Dupe had exactly been a genius _before_ Enyivika had… employed… her, but still. _Good help is so hard to find that one may as well do things oneself… or at least _make_ sure it happens to one's specifications—_

And that reminded Enyivika that Rabbit's presents (the darling had its uses) were still waiting for her in the ruins of the hunting lodge's stables.

Well, the darlings wouldn't be back until dusk at the earliest, and Enyivika really felt that she deserved some quality time with just herself and her favourite hobby.

"I shall be in the stables," Enyivika noted with satisfaction the way the broom ticked against the floor as Dupe started nervously. The underling bobbed her head in (somewhat limited) understanding and Enyivika swept out of the room, her winter-wool cloak swirling around her ankles and scattering dust over the nominally clean parts of the floor. It would keep Dupe busy, at least.

The ground outside the lodge was uneven and rocky, although bits of it still showed signs of human intervention; the remains of a paved 'drive' area, some pieces of low wall marking the paths. Clumps of scrubby grass, gritty piles of snow huddling underneath some of them, dotted the area and added to the feeling of isolation and desolation.

Enyivika approved.

The stables were the most badly damaged of the buildings. The same earthquake that had bowed out one of the lodge's walls had tumbled the top from one of the sheltering hill ridges that surrounded the little valley that the hunting lodge sat in, completely burying half of the stable structure, and making the remaining half a lopsided shanty of a building.

A mage light— the rusty brown colour of dried blood— sprung into being above Enyivika's head as she ducked through the slanted doorway, illuminating the interior of the stable with a daylight-like glow that was entirely at odds with its colour.

This end of the stable building had originally been an open plan tacking and grooming area, and thus provided an adequately large area— with scored paving still intact— for Enyivika to use. Rabbit's presents— all three of them— were laying in the centre of the perfect circle of volcanic glass that Enyivika had burned into the stone of the floor upon arrival.

The predominant colour theme of the three presents was red— shading to a brown that perfectly matched the mage light— but underneath this, white, silver and an odd brownish-grey were visible.

_Hmm…_ Enyivika crossed her arms and tapped one foot on the floor as she considered things. The hardest part in any endeavour; even one that you enjoyed, was deciding where to start. _Well, the main body is rather obvious, it's just how to recombine the rest…_

Uncrossing her arms and sweeping her cloak back over her shoulders, Enyivika adjusted her posture and summoned up her reserves of power with a thought.

It was time to play.

—0—

Day scout Blackbird k'Verei, part of the k'Verei Vale detachment making the trip north and east to the land of Valdemar to fulfil their Clan's obligations under the terms of the Alliance, was not impressed.

Oh, she understood the _reasoning_ behind organising matters so that representatives of every single Tayledras Clan spent three months of the year in one of the capital cities of the Alliance kingdoms; it reminded the Outlanders that the Tayledras were more numerous than many _still_ thought, and it ensured that her people presented a united front to the Alliance.

That wasn't what Blackbird was annoyed at.

Oh, no.

"Blackbird! Wait up!" The voice was filled with enthusiasm, and had a slightly breathless quality to it. It also positively _dripped_ with hero-worship.

_That_ was what Blackbird was unimpressed with.

_:Silly squawking boy, oh no, no, no.:_ Blackbird's peregrine flipped his pointed wings and hunched against his Bondmate's neck. _:Make go away Blackbird!_:

_:I wish I could, Heri, I really wish I could.:_ Blackbird responded, before schooling her expression into something neutral as the source of the voice; an overly enthusiastic young scout by the name of Frostbark, slid to a halt in front of her and grinned, his braided hair swinging around his face.

Frostbark puffed a few heavy breaths, then started to walk backwards, seeing as how Blackbird hadn't slowed her pace in the slightest, and it was either that or have her walk over him.

Blackbird really wished that he'd stand still.

"Didn't you hear me calling?" Frostbark asked, before rattling on. "So, Embertree and Rainfox reckon that we're coming up on the Valdemaran border, isn't it exciting?"

Blackbird fixed her attention on the trees ahead of them— they had trekked up through the Pelagir Forest in the direction of the Valdemaran border and were planning on Gating the rest of the way to the capital once over the border. The Forest around k'Verei Vale was unstable enough to make building a long-distance Gate something that no-one was willing to attempt.

"Hey!" Frostbark waved his hands back and forth. "I said, isn't it exciting?"

Blackbird sighed. "I'm absolutely jumping for joy," she told the boy. "If you continue walking backwards, you're going to trip over something and break a leg."

"Oh, right," Frostbark spun around agilely, and began walking alongside Blackbird, concentrating more on her than on where he was going. "So, have you ever been into Valdemar before?" he asked. "Or met anyone from Valdemar, or one of the other lands— I hear they have representatives from practically all of the countries west of the Empire in the capital city, and there's supposed to be Kaled'a'in gryphons and kyree there, too. Have you ever met someone from k'Leshya?—"

Blackbird tried, with limited success to ignore Frostbark's inane babbling.

Heri moaned in her ear. _:Why silly Blackbird stop snake dogs eating squawking boy?_:

"—and then _Dirden_ said, before we left, that he'd heard that his cousin, from k'Rika Vale was—"

_:I'm not entirely sure, Heri, I'm really not.:_ Blackbird looked around desperately for someone— or indeed, some_thing— _to rescue her. The rest of their small party; four other scouts, an Adept mage, two Master mages and one kyree, were a short distance behind them, as Blackbird was currently serving as point guard.

The three mages; Embertree, Rainfox and Leafdrop, appeared to be deep in conversation with the kyree, Dirden. The scouts were all studiously looking in any direction except for Blackbird's. If she was feeling charitable, then Blackbird would have said that it was because they were being _scouts_ and keeping an eye on their surroundings.

"—arrows that are just like yours and I was wondering if—"

Blackbird was not in a charitable frame of mind.

Heri obviously sensed his Bondmate's worsening temper, and decided to beat a hasty retreat. _:Heri fly ahead, yes?_: he asked, shifting his weight down Blackbird's arm as she held it out to one side in order to launch him.

_:Make good your escape now, featherhead,_: Blackbird told him, as she flung her arm upwards, giving the falcon a boost upwards. _:At least one of us can.:_

Heri beat his wings energetically, quickly gaining height and moving forwards and to one side as he began to angle between the huge trees that made up the vast majority of the Pelagir Forest. _:Heri could find squawking boy's Liss and pull out tail feathers,_: he offered.

"—other day, but I told him that—"

Blackbird was _really_ tempted to take him up on the offer, but a half naked raven would probably earn her significantly _more_ than a smack around the back of the head from the others.

"—and then I overheard Leafdrop saying that we'll—"

_:Up!_: Blackbird jumped and scrambled for her climbing stick as Heri's alarm call echoed in her head.

Judging by the reactions of the other scouts, their own birds were giving them similar alerts.

_:Up! Up! Up! Danger:_

Blackbird froze, putting out one hand to stop Frostbark as well, her climbing stick griped tightly in her other hand. The rest of the group quickly caught up with them, and they quickly formed a rough circle; the scouts and Dirden on the outside, and the three mages on the inside, ready to deliver any spells that were needed.

"Anyone seen anything?" Rainfox, a thin, almost saturnine looking woman, asked. Her bird, a completely white magpie chattered angrily on her shoulder.

Headshakes from all around. "Just the birds, and they've not been able to get a clear look; whatever it is, it's fast and it has some rudimentary shielding magic. That was Windfire, one of the scouts, her bird was a sun tailed hawk called Fri.

"Wonderful," one of the other scouts, Brightstar, muttered, as Blackbird concentrated on Reaching for Heri.

_:Heri?_:

_:Bad, bad, bad! Bondmate look out!_: Heri's sending was tinged with panic, and Blackbird got the disjointed impression of Heri's twisting and turning flight through the tree canopy as he tracked back towards the scout party. Flickers on either side of him were the other hawks and falcons Bonded to members of the party. Frostbark's raven was probably trailing behind the faster raptors.

_:Show me, Heri.:_ As Blackbird sent the request, she could feel the faint tingles at the edge of her awareness that meant that the other scouts were contacting their own birds, probably for similar information.

Strange view, from above, and twisting and changing rapidly as Heri banked and wove between tree trunks. The ground was thick with undergrowth, but the large… _something_… blundering through it didn't seem to notice the impediments in the slightest. There was a coarse, poorly built shield over the thing, blurring it from view in a way that made Heri's eyes ache.

All he— or indeed, Blackbird— could make out was that it was _large_; perhaps the size of a Shin'a'in war steed, and that it was a curious mix of white and greyish brown.

"It's coming from the south," Blackbird warned, sheathing her climbing stick and pulling out her bow and a barbed killing arrow. "And, it's big, we're going to have to take it out fast or it's going to do us damage."

"We should—" Whatever Brightstar was saying was drowned in the sudden crashing sound as the monster appeared a short distance in front of them, the shield still obscuring just what it looked like… apart from the fact that it was _well_ over twelve feet tall. It stopped, apparently surprised to see the Tayledras party expecting it, then it reared up onto its back legs— not incidentally making itself even _bigger_— and produced a challenging shriek that hammered its way through Blackbird's ears and made her _teeth_ ache.

"Sketi!" That sounded like Mooncat, her voice tight with fear. "Arrows!"

Six arrows shot forwards, only to skitter off the surface of the shield. Crude it may be, but it had been keyed by someone who was _not_stupid.

"A little magical aid!" Blackbird demanded, as she nocked a second arrow. The creature had frozen at the first attack, but now reared again and produced another ear-piercing scream, before thundering towards them.

Rainfox cried out something and a brilliant arc of white light lanced over Shadowstone, the final scout's, head, impacting with the shield over the monster. The shield glowed incandescent for a moment, then shattered into glowing motes that rained down onto the ground. The monster didn't slow its charge in the slightest.

"Oh, Blessed _Lady_—" Blackbird was barely aware that the voice was her own, she was too busy staring at the charging monster in paralysed revulsion and shock, the same as the rest of the party.

It wasn't just white— its body was covered in the pure silver-white hair that only a Companion possessed, but, instead of an equine neck and head rising from its chest, there was the naked, pale torso of a man, its arms spread forwards with grossly clawed hands grasping hungrily. Blazing yellow eyes glared out from the scaled, be-fanged, but strangely twisted, wyrsa head that topped the human torso. The four legs of the equine body didn't end in hooves, instead, from about halfway down, the pure white hair melded into brown-scaled, wickedly clawed feet.

And then it was on them.

Blackbird barely managed to jump to one side— violently kicking Frostbark, who had been standing next to her, in the opposite direction— and duck as a hand-claw slashed at her throat. As it was, she rebounded off the side of the thing, stumbling to regain her balance before being thrown sideways as a heavily muscled, scaled tail cracked into her chest, driving away all of her breath.

Chest heaving (and aching in a way that indicated at least _one_ cracked— if not outright broken— rib) as she tried to suck in enough air to banish the black sparkles crowding her vision, Blackbird was aware that the area around her was filled with layered screams.

Loudest were those of the monster, closely followed by the high pitched battle-cries of the Bondbirds and then the frantic cursing of the scouts and mages. Blackbird managed to catch her breath and get her eyes open just in time to be near-blinded as a levin-bolt impacted with the creature's side, making it slew sideways and produce an (even louder) shriek of rage.

"It's partly resistant to magic! _Somebody bloody put some arrows in it!"_ Embertree yelled, his truncated robes swirling around him as he called up a second levin bolt, his hands glowing white-hot with mage energy, then cast it.

Blackbird heaved to her knees and groped for her bow; her right hand closed on it almost immediately, and she half sobbed with relief, scrambling for an arrow to shoot at the monster that was rampaging in their midst. She managed to catch it in its… human… shoulder, making one of its arms flop uselessly against its side.

Two more arrows flew, hitting the creature in the human chest, and just in front of the equine shoulder on the same side that Blackbird had immobilised.

A hawk stooped on the monster, trailing a scream that seemed to cut straight to the heart. The monster whipped its head around and snapped the bird out of the air, crushing it instantly, before throwing it contemptuously away. Blackbird swallowed hard against the bile that surged up her throat.

A blur of dark grey shot past Blackbird, as she finally managed to stagger to her feet, and launched itself at the wounded side of the monster, teeth flashing. Dirden managed to bind with the creature for long enough to score a long wound from one nipple, down its side to just above the top of the equine front leg. The creature howled and reared, throwing the kyree to the ground, before kicking out at him with both front legs.

Dirden managed to writhe sideways and avoid the first foot, but the second one caught him a glancing blow to the hip and he yelped with pain, scrambling fruitlessly at the ground with his front paws in an attempt to get away as the monster reared for a second attempt.

"No!" Frostbark shouted, his arrow taking the creature through the right eye, making it crow hop backwards, flailing in an uncoordinated fashion. Its balance was further thrown off as a trio of levin bolts hit it in the chest, chest and belly.

Smoke wreathed around the creature as it stumbled back onto all fours, still emitting painfully loud yelps and screeches.

"Once more, all together!" Leafdrop yelled hoarsely.

The three mages gestured together and coruscating bolts of pure energy impacted with the monster simultaneously. It let out a horrendous sound and glowed a sickly red colour before collapsing heavily on the ground.

Dead silence, apart from the harsh panting for air from several throats, settled.

Blackbird coughed then really wished she hadn't, dropping her bow from hands that tingled in order to wrap her arms around her chest in a vain attempt to stifle the pain dancing up and down her ribcage.

"Wha—what is—?" she managed, before doubling over as another burst of coughing caught her, leaving her only able to wheeze in pain.

Chattering with acute distress, Heri dove in from above and landed heavily on Blackbird's right shoulder, clenching his claws deep into the padded leather shoulder pad and immediately preening at his Bondmate's hair, too incoherent and badly scared to use anything approaching intelligible Mindspeech.

Sinking to her knees— as standing involved far too much effort— Blackbird blinked sweat out of her eyes and looked around. _Oh no—_

Mooncat was lying half on her back, limbs thrown akimbo, the large gash that occupied her throat and chest, and the jewel-bright sprays of blood around her indicating that the scout was dead. Her hawk, a black-banded male named Risk was nothing but a mangled puddle of feathers and flesh on the ground a short distance away; the monster's teeth had done terrifyingly efficient work.

"Sound… sound off," the voice was dazed, and the reason began apparent as Silverstone, the leader of the scouts, staggered into Blackbird's line of sight. He was bleeding profusely from a head wound, blood streaking down his face and matting both his hair, and the feathers of his gyrfalcon, who was stubbornly refusing to leave his Bondmate's shoulder. Silverstone's eyes were unfocused, and he was swaying from side to side. "Scout Leader Silverstone and Gerr."

"Scout—" another burst of coughing, "Blackbird and Heri—" Blackbird panted harshly, she was finding it hard to breath around the stabbing pain in her chest.

"Sc-scout Windfire and Fri…" Windfire was leaning heavily against a nearby tree trunk, her hawk perched just above her, one of its wings drooping low. Windfire herself was clenching hastily torn fabric around both of her forearms, blood making the formerly green fabric a dark brown colour.

"Brightstar and Drin," Brightstar announced with a groan, "I think my arm is broken…" Brightstar was sitting back to back with Frostbark, his arm curled protectively against his chest, fingers pointing in an entirely unnatural direction. Drin, a falcon was perched on his knee, making distressed sounds in counterpoint to his Bondmate's gasps of pain.

Frostbark was pale, tears streaming down his face, and it took nearly inaudible prompting from Brightstar for him to speak. "Fuh—fuh—Frostbark and—and Liss."

"Adept Rainfox and Krii," Rainfox's voice was calm and controlled, but her expression gave away the fact that she was very close to falling apart.

"Master Embertree and Jali," Embertree was lying on the ground, breathing quickly, obviously in the grip of a severe reaction headache, his crow— which had, before the encounter, still possessed black feathers— was completely white and sitting on Embertree's chest, looking deeply shocked.

A muffled hiss of pain. "Master Leafdrop and Erii," the second Master level mage was sprawled next to Embertree, also showing signs of acute reaction-related suffering. His snowy owl was perched in the same tree as Windfire's Fri, most of its tail feathers missing.

_:Dirden, kyree storyteller and really in need of a Healer—:_ the kyree's Mindvoice was badly garbled with pain-overtones.

"I—" Rainfox paused to take a shuddering breath. "We're Gating to Haven from here, I've already sent the request for a key to the city shields. I…" her gaze wandered towards the still faintly smoking corpse of the monster, and her expression twisted suddenly. "They need to know about this."

No one disagreed, and whimper-laced silence reigned over the group as they waited for contact from the distant city of Haven.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable as relating to the world of Velgarth is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. The character designs of Ambassador Shadowflame and Trannen Ashkevron are used with permission of Cat McDougall, and any unexplained outbreaks of plot, violence, or violent plot can be blamed squarely on etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** The thing about having an actually plot to work with? All the setting up of stuff that's going-to-be-important-later makes for strangely disjointed pre-writing notes and a headache. Ouch.

**Chapter Nine.**

**_Don't go near the castle – Michael reduces assorted instructors to tears – Enyivika is surprised – Rabbit has dinner_**

It was easy to get turned around in the twisting maze of canyons and valleys that made up the vast majority of the Comb. Of course; that wasn't always a bad thing, and it was certainly one of the reasons that Usk had headed into the mountain range in the first place; if _he_ was going to get completely and utterly lost, then the guard patrol following him was almost certainly going to get lost as well. A lost guard patrol was more concerned with finding itself once more than with tracking down people in order to ask them about certain unfortunate matters that had happened back in Karse.

Usk most certainly did not want to go back to Karse, and hopping over the Border to Rethwellan— whilst being the more _sensible_ option to take when fleeing Karsite patrols— was not an option.

The last Usk had heard, the price on his head had been raised to twenty silver nobles; dead or alive, and that was not a subject he wished to discuss with any Rethwellan commoners who happened to have seen the rather poor drawing of him that accompanied the reward notice.

In retrospect, he should have looked further into the position held by the Lord he'd killed. _Why_ his employer for that job had wanted the man dead— and in such a messy fashion— along with just _who_ said employer _was_ wasn't any of Usk's business; and he was well aware that trying to find out information such as that was likely to end up with him having a knife in his back, rather than a full money pouch at his belt. Still; it would have been nice to know that the young man he'd been hired to dispatch of was the _only_ child of the recently widowed Provost-Marshall.

That had been why Usk had found himself in Karse— rain soaked, sheep-riddled piss-patch of a country that it was— and in need of supplies and funds.

A state of poverty which had lead rather neatly and immediately to him having to _leave_ Karse in even more of a hurry than he'd arrived, and little better off.

The muck-splattered and thoroughly tattered looking thief rubbed at his frozen nose with the back of an equally cold hand and spat in the general direction of a scrubby patch of mountain grass as he took in his surroundings. He was in a small valley, well out of the foothills of the Combs, but not quite in to the _big_ mountains that lay to the west of the range and there were still traces of snow on the ground and a distinct chill to the air.

At least he could no longer hear the sounds of the Karsite patrol that had followed him in to the Comb. Although the Karsites has supposedly done away with their disposition to set fire to anything that displeased them at the same time that the Priests had made demon-calling anathema, Usk strongly suspected that they'd make the exception for him.

He had no wish to be sent to a fiery grave.

Another hawked gob of phlegm and spittle splattered over the wiry grass stalks, before Usk arbitrarily picked a direction and began walking.

It was going to be getting dark soon, and he was badly in need to food, water and something in the way of shelter. If his luck decided to do anything other than continue to be abysmal, Usk might hopefully stumble across some traveller or mineral-prospector that he could relieve of such trifling inconveniences as their clothes, supplies, mount and life.

Loose shale slithered under his feet as Usk began to climb a slight incline. This whole area looked as if it had suffered some fairly major upheaval at some point in the past; the crests of the ridges looked more jagged than usual, and boulders and slipways of gravel and shale like the one that Usk was currently scrambling up covered the ground and changed the geography.

Near the top of the ridge, Usk halted and frowned faintly. He could smell smoke on the air. Smoke meant fire. Fire meant people, and people meant _food_ and _shelter._ Changing his direction slightly, the thief walked along the line of the ridge, heading towards the smell.

—0—

It was early afternoon and, after a rather… _eventful_… morning, Michael was pathetically glad to sprawl over the bed in 'his' room in the Healer's Collegium and investigate the contents of one of the books that the person he'd been introduced to as Kristin, Dean of Heraldic Collegium, had given to him last night. The one he was looking at now— and _how_ weird was it to be able to read a language which you _knew_ wasn't English, yet understand it perfectly?— was bound with a plain looking dark blue leather cover and was simply called _A Pertinent History of the Kingdom of Valdemar_.

Surprisingly, it was almost exactly _that._ If medieval fantasy lands that rated their talking horses as a major attraction had such things as S.A.T.s, Michael would have been completely convinced that the _Pertinent History_ was actually a cleaned up set of crib-notes.

Mind you, practically bullet-pointed bits of information such as; _'Karse considered hereditary enemy of Valdemar from time of King Randale (ascended throne 798AF) until midway through reign of Queen Selenay (ascended throne 1376AF), now long time ally via the Mage Storms Alliance,'_ were _damn_ useful for beginning to understand this crackpot place he was now living in. Plus, this book had the undeniably attractive qualities of being neither a dyheli, a Companion, or in any _other_ way inclined to talk inside Michael's head. _Hooray._

Currently, Michael was engrossed in the chapter that listed all of the known magical powers that people could possess; something which both backed up and expanded on what Datti had told him yesterday evening, and was actually proving interesting.

So interesting, in fact, that Michael completely forgot about the fact that he was— since this morning— one big bruise, and half rolled over onto his side. "Ow!" Flinching violently, Michael dropped the book and hastily sat up to clutch at his side. This only made his black eye throb and the long scrape on his left arm begin to hurt again. "Oh for the love of—"

Michael winced and pulled back the sleeve of the strange, loose shirt that was part of the clothing that had been left out for him. As he suspected, the cut had partly reopened and was now oozing blood. _Mutter mutter mutter. I wonder if they have anything like antiseptic wipes around here?_

The young man, when viewed from a distance, looked rather as if he'd gone three rounds with Mike Tyson.

_I wish. A bitten ear would have been a Hell of a lot easier to cope with._

In fact, Michael had merely had his first lessons, or rather, assessments, in weapons work and equitation.

_:It wasn't really that much of a disaster.:_ Michael looked up from his arm to find Giff poking his head through the open window.

"A disaster is exactly what I'd call it," Michael replied with a grimace. The events of this morning were right at the top of his list of memories to be repressed.

_It had all started with a knock on his door this morning, and a rather stunned looking child, dressed entirely in grey, who had handed Michael a note, stared at him in mute horror (it wasn't as much bed hair as modern art; _Trichological Representation of Nuclear Explosion_, maybe), and then skedaddled._

_It was the note that informed Michael that— as a Herald trainee— he was expected to attend assorted lessons, the first of which was to be an assessment of his self defence capabilities, held in the salle, beginning the third candlemark past dawn._

_Breakfast, and figuring out just _how_ to dress himself (the clothes he had been wearing ever since his arrival in Valdemar were seriously looking worse for wear— falling over in front of Datti last night hadn't helped their case any— and Michael had barely gotten back to his room before some kind of high-ranked housekeeping servant had bustled in with an armful of grey fabric clothes and dark-grey leather boots and threatened to remove his clothes with or without his help, forcing him to get changed) in the strange grey, well… uniforms… that he'd been left with had taken far longer than it should have._

_Once that particular challenge had been conquered, Michael was left with half an apple to finish eating, and the note._

_Scratching at his head and staring at the note with utter bemusement, Michael had finally caved and asked the empty room just _what_ and _where_ the salle was, and just _when_ the third candlemark past dawn was. As he had expected, Giff appeared to be eavesdropping._

:It's the building where the Weaponsmaster teaches different methods of fighting, weapons-use and defence, Chosen,_: the Companion had said, _:and about now, actually. Um… Herald Juanna doesn't like to be kept waiting.:

_So Michael had arrived at the salle (which turned out to be the large barn-like building on the other side of the river a short distance from Healer's Collegium) puffing like a leaky pair of bellows and red in the face from running the whole way._

_Weaponsmaster-Herald Juanna had turned out to be a woman who Giff assured Michael was actually old enough to be his _mother_ and looked to be entirely constructed of toughened leather and steel. She also seemed singularly unimpressed with Michael. "Low level of athletic stamina," she'd said to the lanky looking young man who was carrying both a sheathed sword and a thin board with paper clipped to it. The man made some notes with what looked like a stick of graphite._

_Giff had appeared from wherever it was he had been and was watching from a short distance away. _:Malkin is her assistant,_: he said in a helpful tone of voice, _:Juanna's training him as her replacement.:

_Since Michael wasn't entirely comfortable about talking to thin air— even if such goings on were considered par for the course around the talking whites horses— nor could he think of anything intelligent to say, he didn't reply to Giff. Instead, he merely tried to slow his breathing to something more along the lines of _healthy young person_, rather than the _asthmatic emphysema patient argh, argh give me bronchodilators!_ impression he was currently giving._

"_Well, let's get started," Juanna had then said; signalling the start of the single most painful and embarrassing two hours that Michael had ever endured._

_He had to run round the inside of the salle; he had to run round the _outside_ of the salle. He had to do push ups until his arms felt like wet noodles; then he had to do some strange squatting exercises that reduced his legs to a similar consistency and all he wanted to do was lie down on a nice, soft patch of the floor and whimper occasionally._

_Just as he was considering doing that, Juanna (the evil, sadistic woman that she was) had declared him to be sufficiently 'warmed up'._

_Michael managed to keep his yelp of dismay entirely internal, although Giff did squint, and started lifting the scarily large array of weights that Malkin had produced from a concealed cupboard._

_By the end of that Michael didn't care _what_ the floor was like; he was going to lay on it anyway. Before he could though, he'd been chivvied outside and presented with a bow, some arrows and directions to try and hit the target that was about 30 paces away._

_:You did manage to get one bulls-eye.: _Giff broke into Michael's pained memories

"Yes; on a target that wasn't even on the archery field, but was, in fact, off to the far _right_ of the archery field," Michael countered.

_:But—:_

"In a _shed!_" That effectively shut the Companion up.

_Juanna had raised an eyebrow and removed the bow from Michael's possession before he could break it. Instead, she'd tried him with first a pointy stick—_

_:It's called a javelin, Chosen.:_

—_and then with a sling._

"It doesn't matter what it's called, I was shit with it," Michael pointed out.

_:Well…_: Giff sounded as if he was searching for a way to put a positive spin on the situation, _:you _did_ manage to thoroughly subdue the ground directly in front of your feet very effectively.:_

"So I just ask anyone attacking me to please lay down on the ground in front of me so I can drop sticks and stones on them?"

_:Uh…_: Giff fell silent again.

_Juanna's eyebrow had said hello to her hairline again (several times) and then she suggested that they move back inside the salle. Once inside, Malkin had put down his clipboard and unbuckled the sword from his side and left it on a bench. He'd then picked up two blunt sticks—_

_:Practice staves, Chosen.:_

—_and offered one to Michael, who had accepted it. It had felt strangely weighted at one end, so Michael gave it and experimental shake to test this and promptly managed to smack himself in the face; hence the black eye he was now sporting._

_Juanna and Malkin had exchanged a long look, then the Weaponsmaster had turned to Giff, who had followed them into the salle, and Michael._

"_I think it would be best for you to simply run to your Companion and let him get you out of any trouble you may have cause to find yourself in," she'd said in measured tones, her voice entirely neutral. "Now you have equitation lessons; next to the Stables."_

_Michael had taken that as the dismissal that it was and had followed Giff out of the salle hastily. "Equitation?" he'd asked Giff in a whispered voice, heavy with trepidation, as they approached the Companion Stables. The Companion had merely nodded, then introduced Michael to the _tallest_ man Michael had ever seen._

:This is Herald Yisk, and Companion Jilli.:

_And that introduction had marked the beginning of the_ rest_ of the disaster of the morning; beginning with Michael almost managing to strangle Giff twice whilst tacking him up, and ending, after what felt like _years_ of sliding around in the saddle, desperately trying to avoid falling off of the Companion, with exactly that; falling off the Companion._

_The Equitation instructor had exchanged a long look with his Companion, before turning to Michael. "Juanna… she had advice for you after assessing you, yes?"_

_Michael had, from his prone position on the ground, wheezed, then managed; "She told me to get Giff to get me out of trouble."_

"_Ah," Yisk had blinked. "You would best benefit from only being to Haven assigned," he decided in his faintly accented voice._

_If he'd had the breath left in him, Michael would have sighed with relief; the prospect of not _ever_ having to get into a position that involved riding or weapons in _any_ combination was a very good thing._

_:Are you sure that you're head is okay? If there's any chance of you having a concussion, the Healer's should look you over.:_ Giff absentmindedly used the window frame to scratch the side of his neck, before he gave Michael a significant look. _:You share your headaches now, remember.:_

Coming out of the pained reminiscence of the morning, Michael pulled a face at the Companion. "I am practically a doctor, you know," he said, mouth pulling down into a frown, "I think I'd know if I was concussed."

_:Uh…:_ Giff flicked an ear, _:doctor?_:

Returning Giff's bemused expression, with compound interest, Michael floundered for a moment. "A _doctor_," he said slowly, "likes, someone who cures illness and— well—" the young man waved his arms around helplessly.

_:Oh—oh!_: Giff tossed his head, _:I didn't realise that your people had the Healing Gifts.:_

"_Healing_ Gifts?" Michael glanced involuntarily down at the book he still held in one hand; it hadn't mentioned anything about any Gifts of Healing.

_:Um…:_ Giff looked uncertainly at Michael. _:I think I could— I mean, it would be quicker, um— I could maybe—:_

"What?"

_:I think we're just, um, confusing each other further, yes?_: Another uncertain look.

"Your point being?" Michael propped his head up with one bent arm and watched the Companion with curiosity. He was actually rather… surprised… at how quickly he had fallen in with this 'new' kind of reality. _Possibly, _Michael considered, whilst he waited for Giff to explain himself, _I'm just going with the flow because I'm in some kind of shock; at some point something will make me crack and then people will be picking my teeth out of the ceiling._

_:Well, I could… link… with you and, um, trade explanations.:_ The faint sound of gravel shifting under-hoof indicated that the Companion was shifting his weight from side to side nervously.

"Okay," Michael found himself saying. _After all; every other talking animal in this place seems to treat my head as a rummage sale…_

Giff gave him a faintly surprised look and flared his nostrils for a moment. _:Oh…um… right.:_

A… well, it was actually really hard to explain the sensation of someone posting a bundle of memories and thought that weren't your own directly into your forebrain. It felt as weird as _hell_ though. Michael blinked, disorientated as the new information crystallised into something that he could recognise.

"People can just _think_ things better?" he exclaimed, at the same time that Giff said;

_:You can swap people's _organs_ around?_:

Human and Companion stared at each other, wearing identical expressions of shock.

—0—

Rabbit flattened tattered ears to its head and pressed its body as low to the ground as it could manage, using the uneven, rocky ground as scant cover.

The Mistress's newest creation had managed to go and get itself killed, and she was consequently in a truly black rage.

The rattling salvo as the pile of rocks the Mistress pointed at exploded violently and rained smouldering shards down on the vicinity underscored this fact.

The other darlings, having the advantage of flight, were out hunting; Rabbit was the only one left to bear witness to his Mistress's anger… well, except for the not-Mistress-not-prey, but _she _was barely worthy of Rabbit's attention, even when the Mistress commanded it.

More rocks detonated, dusty smoke billowing up into the air, braiding with the shrieked curses that Mistress was voicing. Even if Rabbit had had the inclination (or intelligence) to listen to the Mistress, it wouldn't have understood the words she was using… few north of Ceejay would.

A flash of red, arcing through the air _did_ catch the darling's attention, however, and it blinked myopically as the small red silk bag hit the ground some twenty feet up the slope from the Mistress. The Mistress's Power… and for her to throw it like that meant that she was truly infuriated.

"Rabbit!" Mistress snapped, "retrieve it."

The darling whined in the back of its throat and slunk forwards. Mistress levelled a finger at it, expression black.

"Now!"

Rabbit yelped and skittered forwards, slipping and sliding on the loose shale as it made its way up the slope, heading diagonally for the bag that contained the Mistress's Power. The darling was almost on top of the bag when a shadow detached from behind a large boulder and swiped the bag, holding it aloft.

"Wassit got 'ere, then?" The voice was hoarse, grinding out the vowels of the Trade Tongue with an absolutely _appalling_ accent.

Rabbit flattened its ears and peered at the strange— _stinky!_— man from underneath the hood of its tattered cloak. Gathering its clawed feet underneath its body and hunkering down, the darling tensed and hissed a warning, bearing filthy, pointed teeth.

"Ain't you an ugly bugger?" The man sneered down at the darling, scratching at his stained and torn fur-lined tunic with one hand, the other clenched around the end of the delicate red cords of the silk bag.

"_What_," that was the Mistress's voice; every vowel well-rounded, every consonant sharp with suppressed fury, "do you think you are _doing_, you dis_gus_ting little man?"

Rabbit spared a quick glance towards the Mistress; her expression was stony, her lips compressed into a thin line. The air around her arms was distorting ever so slightly, like a highly localised heat haze. The darling growled once more and returned its attention to the smelly man, who was now leering down at the Mistress.

"Whassa little lady like you doin' all alone in the mount'ins, eh?" The smelly man groped suggestively at his crotch, thrusting his hips forwards slightly.

"You _pewling _little corpse maggot—"

The _sense_ of the Mistress behind Rabbit suddenly grew exponentially, pressure like the feeling before a storm pressing against the darling's eardrums, making them whistle and pop several times in quick succession.

"Ye've gorra mouth on ya, haven' ya?" the man hawked a gob of spittle onto the ground at his feet. "Mebbe I'll sort tha' out after I sees wha's in this 'ere pretty bag."

"_Put that down!"_ Rabbit flinched; that tone of voice generally meant that someone was about ten breaths away from having their skin removed in one piece. In the corner of its eye, it could see that the Mistress was glowing faintly with dull red-brown power.

The man sniffed, unimpressed, "so ya thin's yar mage?" he asked insolently. "Got me some demon-charms, one little woman's not gonna bother _me_—" As he said this, smelly man was working on the draw-string of the bag. With one efficient movement, he loosed the knot and upended the bag.

A single item, a smooth, cylindrical object approximately the size of a human thumb tumbled out and hit the palm of the man's outstretched hand with a faint smack. The weak sunlight reflected from it, creating sparks of orange and white-from-black that made Rabbit blink uncomfortably.

"Wassis 'posed to be then?" The smelly man looked down at the Mistress's Power, expression dense and unimpressed. "Hey—"

A thin line of smoke boiled up from the Mistress's Power, drawing a straight line into the air. "Wha—?" the smelly man exclaimed and dropped the object… or rather, _tried_ to drop it. No matter how hard he shook his hand— which was now pouring rank smelling smoke— he couldn't drop the Mistress's Power; it seemed to be melting its way under his skin.

Rabbit risked a glance at Mistress; she was watching raptly, her anger apparently gone.

A pained scream brought the darling's attention back to smelly man. He was now standing stock still, staring in revulsion at his hand; the surface was bubbling and roiling, almost as if the limb had a life of its own that it was determined to extinguish. Another scream; then another, and another, until the man was shrieking continuously, at an ear-piercing volume, greasy smoke from the Mistress's Power wreathing around his body.

Lights began to flicker underneath the man's skin, shooting from the Mistress's Power, up his arm and through his body. These quickly increased until the man's whole body was flashing a flickering like a lightning strike; the intricate maze of his nerves shining out like a beacon. The flickering speeded up, until the light was one solid, intense glow that left a smoky imprint on the retinas. It increased in brightness, causing Rabbit to squeeze its eyes shut and look away.

And then— a moment of, not sound, but anti-sound, like the whole world had briefly ceased to exist and wasn't sure what to do about it— and an explosion of intense pressure, followed by a ghostly echo of an explosion.

Rabbit blinked, aware that its face and left flank felt wet and warm, and cautiously looked around. The smelly man was gone; instead there was a circle of burnt rock, perhaps three yards in diameter, the perimeter of which was marked with a thick, circular, mound of something damp and red. It steamed faintly in the cool mountain air.

The Mistress's Power, perfect and unharmed, sat on top of the red silk bag in the exact centre of the circle of devastation.

Rabbit looked down at its front paws, which were buried in the red matter. It raised one and examined it, then licked it slowly. It tasted like warm copper and salt.

"Well," Rabbit flinched; the Mistress had moved to stand next to the darling without making a sound. Her expression was surprised and— if Rabbit was any judge— impressed, "that was certainly… unexpected." Lifting up the hem of her cloak, the Mistress stepped daintily over the edge of the circle and retrieved her Power, pocketing it immediately.

"Rabbit," the Mistress exited the circle in the same decorous fashion and looked down at the darling.

**_Ye-es—_** the darling responded cautiously.

"Eat that; I don't want any traces left." The Mistress sniffed and turned on her heel, heading back towards the base of the valley (and the 'improved' lodge) without a backwards glance.

**_Yes Mistress—_** the darling agreed eagerly, shuffling forwards, lowered its head and licking its lips.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** Everything recognisable as relating to the world of Velgarth and the kingdom of Valdemar is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Character designs of Trannen Ashkevron and Ambassador Shadowflame used with permission of Cat McDougall.

**Notes:** A subdivision of Murphy's Law states that as soon as a writer is out of reach of their laptop, any and all writer's block they may have been suffering up until that point will vanish completely and utterly. Darn you Murphy!

**Chapter Nine.**

**_Where I'm from, we call it 'molly-coddling' – Consulting with a kyree – Flipping out, Michael style – Giff is used as a target. Again._**

"You've done something to me," Michael narrowed his eyes and stared at Giff. "What have you done to me?"

Giff stared back blankly, _:What are you talking about?_:

"_You,_" Michael levelled an accusatory finger at the Companion, "have done something to _me_. I want to know what."

_:Uh…:_ Giff blinked and Michael gritted his teeth.

"Since you shoved me _in_ to this utter _acid_ trip of a place, I've just been merrily accepting it and that is _not_ normal."

_:Oh,_: Giff flattened his ears and looked contrite. _:Um…:_

"What did you _do_?"

Mental throat clearing sound. _:It… ah… it wasn't me, it was Hirrn. She and the Groveborn thought it best that you adjusted to Valdemar and everything a little bit at a time._: The Companion paused to see how Michael was taking the information, _:so, um, Hirrn gave you some mental buffers—_:

"So I wouldn't go stark raving bonkers?" Michael interrupted. It wasn't his Companion who answered him, however.

_:Broadly speaking, yes.:_

Both Michael and Giff turned to stare at the door. It was ajar and the large, dappled grey, form of Hirrn was occupying it.

The kyree wrinkled her nose as she looked penetratingly at Michael. After a moment her posture indicated that she was distinctly under impressed. _:You are on the verge of a concussion,_: she said, before rolling her eyes in a remarkably human gesture. _:Why is it that young males are convinced of their own immortality?_: A snort. _:Come on, we'll get you sorted out.:_

The kyree reversed back out into the corridor, then turned to walk away.

"But—"

Hirrn looked back over her shoulder, _:and I'll explain some things to you, if you keep up.:_ With that, she set off down the corridor, claws clicking on the tiled floor.

_:I'd go with her if I were you,_: Giff advised, _:she'll probably explain things better than I could anyway—:_ Although the Companion stopped there, Michael could easily complete the sentence; _and you're less likely to throw things at her._

Michael thought briefly of the size of the distinctly lupine-like kyree, and her equally large teeth. _Well, he's right._

Levering himself off the bed, Michael winced as his ankle twinged, then stuffed his feet haphazardly into his trainers (which had escaped the clutches of the housekeeper) and limped out the door. He fully expected to have to try and run to catch up with the lupine Healer.

To his surprise, she was waiting for him a short distance down the corridor, sitting regally in the centre of the floor.

She gave him another one of those peculiarly penetrating looks before standing up. _:Nice outfit.:_

Michael sighed. "Thanks."

_:You're welcome,_: Hirrn twitched her whiskers a few times and paced forwards. _:The main dispensary is this way.:_ She set off at a speed that Michael could, despite his limp, keep up with her.

"What have you done to me?"

She eyed him sideways and huffed out a sigh. _:You've not seen anyone about that ankle, either, have you?_: The question was apparently rhetorical because Hirrn didn't give Michael any chance to reply before she continued, _:honestly, human males—!_:

Michael felt vaguely like a goldfish, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "What have—"

_:Here's the dispensary.:_ Hirrn turned sharply left and came to an abrupt halt, almost tripping Michael up.

"Hey!"

The kyree ignored him and Michael blinked and looked curiously at the large pair of double doors in front of them. They were glazed for most of their length, and, where Michael expected to see door handles, bore noting of the sort. Instead they both sported a flat oblong sheet of some kind of iridescent crystal.

They looked like the double-swing doors in the hospital. _Yeah, if the person who built them was told to work along the lines of 'medieval meets Star Trek'._

"Uh…"

Hirrn flicked an ear at him then sat back on her haunches and touched one of the crystal oblongs with a front paw. The lock in the door clicked open. _:Mages,_: she observed, _:have their uses.:_

Standing up, the kyree nudged the door open with her nose, before jerking it to indicate that Michael should precede her into the room.

The air inside was… not cold, but certainly cooler than the corridor; it was also distinctly arid feeling, Michael stopped a short distance in and eyed the shelves— some open, some behind more glazed doors set with oblong crystals— all filled with neatly stacked boxes, jars and bottles of every shape and size imaginable.

_It looks like a dispensary…_ was all he could think, in a bemused fashion.

The door clicked shut behind them as Hirrn kicked it before brushing past the young man.

_:Let me see…:_ the kyree muttered to herself, looking at the shelves with an intent familiarity. _:I know you can read Valdemaran thanks to that witless excuse for a dyheli King-stag, so you can fetch for me; it's for your benefit anyway. First and foremost; a mild analgesia mix for your injuries in general—: _Hirrn dabbed one paw in the direction of a shelf. _:The small boxes with the yellow labels.:_

Michael hesitated for a moment before stepping over to the indicated shelf and removing a small square box constructed of thin wood, a bright yellow label pasted on the lid and over one side, sealing it shut. The block script on the label read _Analgesia Mix One— Mild pain._

The kyree interpreted his confused silence and expression. _:Pressed tablets of sugar and flour containing willowbark, alem lily root and vervetin. Taking one three times a day for the next few days should help your ankle and… other injuries…:_ Hirrn diplomatically didn't look at Michael's utter shiner of a black eye, but he flushed anyway.

"Um, thanks…" he mumbled.

_:Next… for the outside…:_ the kyree tilted her head to one side and worried at a stubby whisker with her tongue. _:Ah— the bottles with the yellow and green labels, on the shelf next to the Mix One tablets—:_

Michael dutifully shuffled the box he was holding to one hand and retrieved a cream-glazed pottery bottle, firmly sealed with a cork and wax. The contents sloshed about when he gave it an experimental shake; something that he stopped when he realised that Hirrn was looking at him.

_:Wormwood and white willow in spirit; good for bruises from the outside only and tastes like the devil's own leavings.:_ The kyree said in a tone of amusement. _:I wouldn't suggest drinking it— what _is_ that infernal racket?_:

Michael was about to ask _what racket?_ when muffled noises from somewhere outside of the dispensary became audible to him. Apparently, as well as looking wolf-like, the kyree possessed a similarly keen sense of hearing. The sound of many footsteps hurrying here and there, followed by a strangely dislocated thumping sound and a greasy feeling to the air.

Hirrn's nostrils flared and she raised her head. _:They're opening a Gate straight to the Healer's Archway—:_ she said, somewhat cryptically, _:that cannot be a good thing.:_

Before Michael could ask just what a 'Gate' and a 'Healer's Archway' could be— and _why_ those two things in conjunction were bad, he found himself being rather effectively chivvied out of the dispensary, a short way down an entirely unfamiliar corridor and rather abruptly deposited in a tiny scrap of a courtyard garden.

"Uh—"

_:Companion's Field is through that gateway,_: Hirrn said distractedly, indicated a narrow gateway cut into the stone wall that formed the far perimeter of the courtyard, _:your Companion should find you with little difficulty— I'm afraid I have business elsewhere—:_ From the way that she kept glancing over her shoulder, ears pricked to catch sounds too faint for him to hear, Michael guessed that the kyree was going to go and interfere with whatever the Gate at the Healer's Archway was.

Sure enough; she had barely finished speaking before turning with a spring and vanishing into the building.

Which was when Michael realised that he had just spent a mildly irritating half-hour being dispensed herbal medicine and gaining _no information what-so-ever._

"Great," he groused, out loud. "All the creatures with the weird talk-in-my-head mojo are obsessed with being cryptic!" None of the plants in the courtyard seemed inclined to comment. After a moment, Michael sighed and decided that he may as well try and find Giff. At least the Companion would be able to show him where his room was.

Box of tablets rattling somewhat, the young man limped gamely through the gateway that Hirrn had indicated and found himself standing on the edge of a small meadow, bordered on three sides by trees and bushes. A single path wound across the meadow from the gateway to the trees, where it vanished. A resigned sigh, and Michael made his way across the meadow, blinking slightly as he followed the path under the trees.

After a small amount of winding through the most ordered 'wilderness' that Michael had ever encountered, the young man found himself standing on the edge of a much larger… well, _field_ was hardly the word for a grassy open space that had _horizons_. The path petered out, so Michael gamely started walking up the slight hill that he'd come out at the bottom of. The grass was over-long for easy limping, so walking was something that required far more of Michael's attention than it should.

Consequently, Michael would have been hard put to say just who was more surprised when he reached the top of the hill and was nearly bowled head over heels by a pair of Companion foals.

He yelped and sprang back, fumbling to avoid dropping the box and bottle that Hirrn had given him; _they_ both yelped, skidded to sudden, ungraceful stops. Michael found himself being stared at by two pairs of very wide, extremely blue, eyes, and was yet again surprised by the sheer amount of expression that apparent animals were able to generate. He was also uncomfortably aware that his own expression was somewhat similar.

"Uh…" Michael tried, unsure of how to deal with talking white horses when they were also children, "…hello."

Both foals stared at him with a kind of mad amazement.

Michael stared back at them, unable to think of anything more to say. After a moment, the foals became bored and began to dance around each other; gangly legs flying every which way in a masterful show of limited co-ordination. Michael watched them for a moment, then elected to continue walking in the hope that he would either find Giff or (less likely) a building that he vaguely recognised.

It only took a few steps for Michael to realise that the foals were following him; well, for a given value of 'follow'. It would be more accurate to state that they seemed to be playing a game that meant that all of their _other_ games of chase and catch could only take place within fifteen feet of Michael himself.

_I'm walking across a field, after being doctored by an outsize wolf, and I'm being orbited by a pair of juvenile talking horses, _Michael sighed. _Welcome to the new and improved reality; now with ninety-seven percent _less_ in the way of an explanation!_ Sadly; it was true. He'd gone with Hirrn because— well, _primarily_ because she'd said so, and she could probably bite clean through a car door without noticing— but also because Giff had assured him that the kyree would explain just _why_ he'd spent the last few days happily and passively accepting the fact that his life now included talking horses.

_Have I gotten an explanation? I think not!_ Michael jerked himself to a halt long enough for the foals to cut in front of him; both were making the most bizarre set of excited squeaking and neighing sounds, then continued ambling forwards aimlessly.

Here and there, at varying distances, there were more Companions dotted about. They lifted their heads to look at Michael, but seemed singularly disinclined to wander over and see if he needed any help.

_That doesn't surprise me. Helping would involve _explaining_ things to me, and no-one wants to do that._

_:Michael?_: Michael jumped, then cursed as his ankle twinged. Looking around, he saw that one of the not-too-distant Companions had left off grazing, and was heading towards him at a trot. After a moment, it became apparent that he had a rather spectacular bruise masquerading as his nose, and Michael realised that it was Giff.

_:What are you doing out here? I thought you were talking to Hirrn.:_ The young stallion drew to a halt just in front of his Chosen, absentmindedly lifting up his head to allow the two foals to run in front of him, then around him.

Michael shrugged, making the tablet box rattle. "She talked _at_ me, foisted off these on me—" he shook the box and bottle, "—then muttered something cryptic about 'gates' and 'archways' and vanished."

Giff's eyes widened. _:A Gate's been opened directly to the Healer's Archway? That can't be a good thing.:_

Michael gave the Companion an exasperated look. "That's pretty much what _she_ said, and it still makes no sense."

_:Oh.:_ Giff looked apologetic. _:Um… Gates are a magical means of travelling large distances instantly,_: he said, his Sending flavoured with explanatory overtones, _:and the Collegium and Alliance mages got together a few years back and thrashed out the basics of how to build the anchor points for Permanent Gates, so it wasn't just the Adept Mages that could activate them. There are three in Haven; the Palace Gate, Mage Collegium Arch—:_ a fleeting impression of an ornate doorway, somewhere inside a building that Michael somehow knew was the Palace itself, followed by a less ornate, freestanding archway in the middle of an otherwise-bare square stone room, _:—and the Healer's Archway, which is used to Gate badly injured people straight to the House of Healing.:_ That was accompanied by the image of a gravelled stone courtyard, at the centre of which was a large, carved stone archway, surrounded by a perfect circle of paving stones.

Michael digested this burst of— remarkably coherent— information. "I see," he said finally.

_:Which is why,_: Giff said, _:a Gate being opened to the Healer's Archway is rarely a good thing.:_

Michael had a brief flash of the entrance to the E.R.; of the many people who walked, stumbled, or were wheeled, through the battered sliding doors. "I… see…" he repeated slowly. His thoughts seemed to have become strangely syrupy and slow moving, and he felt strangely lethargic.

"Damn it!" Michael shook his head violently and fought the calming feelings that were trying to hijack his brain. "Your bloody mind tricks are messing with my head!"

Giff stepped back uncertainly and flattened his ears.

Michael gritted his teeth and concentrated on _shoving_ against the wave of wellbeing that was threatening to drown him. "I'm from Chicago!" he said loudly. "I'm from Chicago and I'm an intern in City General hospital on surgical rotation, and I live in an apartment block, in an apartment that owes most of its structural integrity to the posters on the walls, with two incredibly irritating fellow medical students!" He paused for breath then continued, voice getting louder and louder until he was all but shouting the last few words.

"I commute to work on the El and think twenty-four-hour shifts are _normal_ and the _only_ reason I went to the Seven/Eleven on Monday night was because the Neanderthal known as Ralph had drunk all the milk and beer yet _again!_"

Giff had retreated several steps and was looking at Michael like he was an overly full colostomy bag; full of shit and liable to explode at any given moment. The other Companions in the vicinity had also given up any pretence of grazing and were shamelessly staring at the unfolding drama.

Another wave of wellbeing tried to sneak up on Michael and he struggled against it, feeling as if every vein in his head was about to explode. "I like beer and cable television and Super bowl Sunday!" he shouted, "I do _not _like nature or camping and my absolute _worst_ idea of a way to spend the rest of my life is anything to do with horses, _particularly if the damn things insist on talking— all— the—TIME!"_ He stumbled slightly as… something… inside his head gave way and everything—_ everything_— suddenly snapped in to a sickening kind of focus.

The wooden pill box exploded as it hit Giff above his left eye, raining splintered bits of wood and small white pills down on the grass.

_:Agh!_: The Companion jumped violently. _:What in the name of Kernos are you doin—:_ the ceramic bottle shot past his right ear and Giff shied violently sideways.

"_Screw—!"_ Michael bellowed, _"YOU!"_ Before Giff could formulate any kind of response, Michael had lurched around and stumbled off at a run; heading off in to the depths of the Field. He had no idea where he was going and, quite frankly, he didn't _care._


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **Anything and everything relating to the kingdom of Valdemar, and the world of Velgarth, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey.

**Notes: **The immature person in charge of the cursor is etcetera-cat. She is currently experiencing a bizarre combination of new-fandom glee and truly awful writer's block and apologises for the sporadic nature of updates on this story.

**Chapter Eleven.**

_**A horse, mind reading – A state of sulking, not – A large crowd, curious – The use of Healing, occasional – A meeting, briefly – A mystery, confusing**_

Michael wasn't sure how long he'd been running, or in which direction he'd been going. All he was sure of was that 1) his whole world seemed about ready to collapse, and, 2) his ankle was really starting to hurt.

Sucking his breath in through his nose and out through his mouth in an attempt to calm himself down, Michael slowed to a walk, limping in a pronounced fashion. He didn't recognise— from what he could see through eyes that felt sandy and were burning— anything around him. He finally came to a halt when his path was neatly transacted by a wide, deep-looking brook.

Michael stood on the bank, wrapped his arms around himself and looked blankly down at his reflection on the surface of the brown, almost black bottomed water.

_:You should take the pressure off that ankle; sit down.:_

Michael jerked his head up and glared at the Companion who had ghosted up next to him. It gazed opaquely back at him, seemingly unperturbed.

_:You almost put Giff's eye out, you know,_: the voice was familiar, but Michael couldn't seem to sort through the soup that currently constituted his mind to attach a name to it. _:And I see that those daft barriers they set up in your mind have come down in a rather untidy fashion.:_

"What, you some kind of mind reader?" Michael managed to snap out.

_:Observation is not one of your strong suits, is it?_: the Companion flicked one ear, then reached forwards and used its chin to shove downwards on Michael's shoulder. _:Sit down before you fall down.:_

"Ow." The shove made his ankle twinge and Michael gave in to the inevitable; sitting gracelessly down on the ground.

_:See, I told you.:_

"You _pushed_ me!"

The Companion stared down the length of its (really quite impressively long) nose at Michael. _:Yes, we tend to do that a lot. You're supposed to get used to it.:_

"Being shoved around by horses?" Michael pulled up his trouser leg and regarded his hurt ankle cautiously. There was a quite impressive bruise.

_:Amongst other things, yes.:_ The Companion didn't seem to take offence to being referred to as a horse (something which Michael's shiny implanted memories were telling him it should) and continued to watch him. For some reason, its voice seemed familiar.

_:You walked into me under my willow tree.:_ The Companion seemed to anticipate his question. _:That is what you were going to ask, yes?_:

"Uh… yes." Michael blinked. "Your name's Datti, right?"

The Companion flicked one ear towards him, then inclined its head once. _:I imagine that Giff told you,_: she said, with a sniff, _:I can also imagine the other things that he told you.:_

Michael crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. "Yeah, well, I'm not entirely sure I believe anything that he tells me."

_:He got my name right,_: Datti said, following the statement with a mental sound that could loosely be considered laughter. _:As for the rest, I imagine that it was fairly accurate as well.:_

There didn't seem to be much that Michael could say to that.

_:Are you planning on sulking out here for long?_:

"I am not sulking."

_:Yes,_: Datti said, _:you are. You are also avoiding going back to the Palace, because you will likely run into someone who you think will tell you off for throwing things at your Companion yet again.:_

Michael flushed and cleared his throat. "No I'm not— and even if I were, it's not like anyone would be around. They're all too busy fussing over this Healer's gate thing."

_:The Gate at Healer's Archway.:_

"Yeah, that. Why aren't you there?"

Datti fixed him with a chilly look. _:I do not possess those traits that make it enjoyable for me to ogle at other people's misfortune; nor do I particularly care for the ins and outs of politics.:_

"Politics?" Michael gave Datti a mystified look. "How are some injured… people… arriving at a hospit— Healer's anything to do with politics?"

_:The Healer's Archway Gate terminal is specifically keyed— like all of the mage shields around Haven— and, in order to activate the Gate-spell, it needs to be authorised by the Queen's Own Herald and implemented by the Dean of Mage Collegium.:_

Michael nodded slowly; he _thought_ he was following what Datti told him.

_:So, I eavesdropped. The request for Gate privilege was from the group of Tayledras due to start in Haven as the Ambassador's delegation. That makes it _very _political.:_

"Oh."

Datti stared at him for a long moment. _:Regardless of whether or not I wish to go there, you need to be seen by a Healer, however you are in no fit state to find one.:_

Michael glanced involuntarily down at his ankle. Datti was right. "So you're going to bully one out here?" he guessed.

_:No.:_ Datti shook her head then abruptly lay down next to Michael. _:Get on.:_ She gestured to her back with a short jerk of her nose.

Michael stared uncertainly at the snowy white shoulder next to him. "I don't know how to ride," he said.

_:That will not be a problem.:_

"I fell off Giff six times in one lesson this morning."

_:I will be walking, not prancing about the equitation ring like a fool.:_

"You're not going to give up, are you?" Michael asked with trepidation.

Datti swung her head around and looked at him. _:I told you; you'd better get used to being bossed around by white horses. It's a common theme around here.:_

Michael sighed loudly and shuffled himself over to Datti's side. "At least you're _honest_ about it," he said.

The Companion watched as he awkwardly pulled himself up onto his knees, and then onto her back. _:I have the advantage of having very little to lose,_: she told him. _:Therefore I see no need to honey-coat facts to make them into palatable lies. Hold on.:_

Michael gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in Datti's knotted mane as she lurched to her feet, jostling him forwards and back. After a moment, she stood steady and curved her neck to look back at him.

_:All settled?_:

"No," Michael said grimly, squeezing his legs against her sides as hard as he could. His bad ankle twinged.

Datti voiced a disbelieving snort and stepped out into an easy walk, heading in the direction of the Palace and the House of Healing.

After a few moments, Michael realised that the rolling parkland (calling it Companion's _Field_ was a definite misnomer of epic proportions) they were moving slowly through was pretty much empty of all things white and equine.

"Uh… where are the, um, others?"

Datti raised her head and flared her nose before replying. _:A few of the youngsters are staring at Giff in the Stables; the others in the Stables are using their Heralds to eavesdrop on Healer's. The rest of the Herd are actually over _at_ Healer's, using assorted means to eavesdrop.:_

Michael couldn't think of any sensible reply to that and elected to continue clinging to Datti's back as best he could. The rest of the ride to Healer's Collegium was in silence.

As Datti clattered across the wide plank bridge that lead to the front of the Collegium, Michael could see the truth of her words; the whole of the open courtyard area between Healer's, the Stables and one corner of Heraldic Collegium was full of Companions of all shapes and sizes. Mingled here and there were people either wearing full Heraldic Whites or the strange grey colour that denoted a Heraldic trainee.

Datti dealt with the crowd by seeming to ignore that it even existed; she simply marched in a straight line towards the front entrance of Healer's Collegium, apparently perfectly ready to trample over anyone who was foolish enough to stay in her way.

A path was cleared for her with some alacrity. Michael was acutely aware that _he_ seemed to be the focus of most of the startled looks that were being directed their way by Companions, Heralds and trainees alike.

"_I think they're staring at us,"_ he muttered, hoping that Datti could hear him.

_:It's not often that the resident lunatic of the Field shows up in the company of the newest lunatic in Haven.:_

"_I'm_ a lunatic?"

_:You have looked in the mirror recently, haven't you?_:

Datti halted abruptly and Michael removed his concentration from staring fixedly at the back of her head with a start. They were at the front of the crowd in front of the Collegium.

"Heyla!"

Michael looked around at the exclaimed greeting, wobbling in place on Datti's back and only keeping his balance with an effort of will. Hirrn's assistant— Trannen, Michael thought his name was— popped up next to Datti and waved to attract Michael's attention.

"Um, hi," Michael managed lamely, belatedly noticing that this part of the crowd contained a selection of people wearing shades of green, red, yellow and blue.

"They kicked most of us out just as soon as we patched up the scouts— just after the Mages showed up and began shouting at each other," the young Healer said helpfully.

Michael stared blankly at him.

_:Your ankle.:_ Datti prompted as she made a show of examining the closed door a short distance away.

"My, uh, ankle," Michael managed. "I sprained it quite badly." He managed to remove one hand from Datti's mane without gravity abruptly reasserting its claim on him and pulled his trouser leg up a mite.

Trannen's expression became suddenly business-like and he waved Michael's hand away, pushing up the fabric himself to get a better look at the spectacular bruising and swelling. "You certainly have banged this up well," he commented, gently probing the edges of the bruise with cool fingers.

Michael suppressed a wince. "I'd noticed," he not-quite snapped. "So I'd really appreciate some painkillers and some kind of support bandage.

"Mmm," Trannen made a non-committal sound and placed both his hands over Michael's ankle.

"Hey! What are you—" Michael broke off what he was saying and stared at Trannen in shock. The young man had a vacant expression and seemed to be staring off into the distance. Pins and needles tingled sharply in Michael's bad ankle, making him yelp.

_:Healers are occasionally useful.:_

"What?"

Datti seemed singularly disinclined to answer him, so Michael was left staring at the top of Trannen's head. The feeling of pins and needles, accompanied by a strange warmth, intensified then abruptly stopped.

Trannen took in a deep breath, blinked a couple of times and let his hands drop from Michael's leg. "There you go," he said.

Michael stared at his leg in confusion; the skin was faintly yellow, almost exactly like an old, almost healed bruise and his ankle didn't hurt in the slightest.

"Uh… thanks."

"You're welcome." Trannen grinned up at him. "Hirrn mentioned that she'd seen you about your ankle earlier."

"Something like that."

The young Healer grinned even wider. "Her bark truly is worse than her bite."

Datti forestalled Michael making any kind of reply by sidestepping and shaking her head from side to side. Michael yelped and flung himself forwards, gripping at the Companion's neck with both arms so that he didn't fall off.

_:You can get off now.:_

"You couldn't just _say_?" Michael pushed himself back into a sitting position and glared at Datti. She twisted her head around and gave him a flat look.

_:No.:_

"This… is not your Companion?" Trannen had stepped back when Datti moved and was now eyeing Datti in a cautious fashion.

"Um, no." Michael abruptly decided that maybe he _did_ want to be less of a spectacle. He also got the distinct impression that if he asked Datti to lie down she'd do something painful to him. The ground suddenly seemed awfully far away. He eyed it with some misgiving as he tried to figure out how he was going to dismount without breaking his neck.

"Oh." Trannen managed to imbue a world of curiosity in that one word.

Michael ignored him for a moment and finally elected to swing one leg over Datti's neck and slither down her side to the ground. He jarred his knees slightly as he hit the ground, but completely ignored that in favour of surprise that his ankle was… _better_.

Datti sniffed and stepped away from him as Michael leaned on her shoulder in order to lift up his foot and examine it. _:I told you that Healers occasionally have some uses,_: she told him in a reproving tone. _:I am not a leaning post for your personal usage.:_

"Uh, sorry."

Trannen evidently decided that Michael was going to be little use and he stepped in front of Datti. "Healer Trannen Ashkevron, pleased to meet you ma'am."

Michael poked at his ankle as Datti looked down the length of her nose at Trannen.

"Um." Michael looked up from his examination. "This is Datti, she gave me a ride back from the Field."

Trannen's eyes widened slightly. "Oh," he said and backed up a couple of steps.

_:You were cluttering up my river bank.:_

"So… what's going on?" Changing the subject, Michael figured, was probably a good idea.

Trannen shrugged. "I didn't see the Gate go up or come down, but Hirrn said that it originated from the Pelagirs, where they meet the end of the Comb. The scouts that came through, they were pretty shredded up, though. The one I treated— Rainfox, I think she was called— said that they were attacked by some kind of Changeling, but she wouldn't tell me what, then the Mages showed up and hushed everyone up until they could boot us all out.

"Oh." Michael seemed to be saying that a lot today. "So where's Hirrn?"

Trannen grimaced. "Well, quite apart from the fact that there are very few ways to remove a kyree unless they _want_ to go, one of the members of the party is her cousin, Dirden. One of his legs is pretty mangled up."

_:The Companions with Herald-Mages aren't sharing what their Chosen are doing,_: Datti said suddenly. _:And, whatever it is, they've shielded the room they're in too strongly for anyone to spy.:_

"Da—Datti says the Companions can't see what's going on." Michael offered, after a moment's hesitation.

"Just before I was pushed out here, I heard them talking about bringing across the body of the Changeling," Trannen said. "The mages are really worried about it."

"How can you tell that?" Michael asked.

Trannen flashed him a quick smile. "I have Empathy; their emotions are strong enough to leak through the shields a bit." His smile abruptly faded. "I don't think that's a good thing."

Before Michael could think of any sensible reply (after, that is, the Shiny Implanted memories provided a definition of 'Empathy') the front door of Healer's Collegium creaked open and a single figure in white stepped out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael noticed Datti tensing, combined with a strange empty feeling in his mind— strange, because he'd not even realised that his mind was _full_ in any way like that— although he couldn't imagine why. After a few moments, Michael recognised the man walking towards him as Gillan, the Queen's Own Herald.

"You, Michael," Gillan barked at him and gestured. "Come on, we haven't got all day."

"Uh…" Michael looked uncertainly around as the Herald marched up to him and gestured abruptly at the ajar door.

"Come on, come on. Get a move on." Gillan completely ignored Michael's personal space and grabbed hold of an elbow in order to give him a shove in the direction of the door. "It looks like we have a use for you after all."

Michael swallowed audibly and cautiously began walking towards the door, aware that curious murmurs were rippling through the crowd behind him. When he reached the doorway he stopped and turned around. Rather than being directly behind him, as he'd expected, Herald Gillan was standing almost exactly in the spot that Michael had vacated, staring at Datti. One of his hands was half-raised, as if to touch the Companion on the nose.

Wondering what was going on, Michael shifted his weight from foot to (amazingly uninjured!) foot. Datti stared back at Gillan, the hint of expression on her equine face making Michael feel cold inside, before abruptly jerking herself away from him and stalking off into the crowd. The Queen's Own stayed still for a long moment, single hand still half raised, before turning on his heel and stalking towards Michael, every bit abruptly as Datti had.

"Inside," Gillan instructed as he reached around Michael to push the door open wide enough to admit the pair of them. Michael stepped through, starting slightly in the relatively dim-seeming hallway as Gillan shut the door with a loud thud.

"This way." The Herald pushed Michael in the direction of a long corridor and quickly took the lead. Trailing after him, Michael found himself wondering about Datti, about Gillan, about what on _Earth_ he was about to be let in for and— strangely— about Giff.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. The things that almost look as if they're actually resolving into _plot_ can probably be blamed squarely on etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** Insert your own witty comment here.

**Chapter Twelve.**

_**Lotion for external use only – More Animals That Talk – Some points of exposition – Hunt, my Darlings! Hunt!**_

Most of Giff's face was a rather unattractive pale grey-green colour. This was due to the bruise poultice which a junior Healer had painted him with about a candlemark ago. The Companion mournfully examined his reflection in the large sheet of highly polished metal that was fixed to the wall next to the main entrance of the Stables.

_:At least it covers up the bruises.:_

Giff twitched an ear sideways at the comment and continued to stare glumly at the mirror. A large white shape ghosted up behind him and quickly resolved into another Companion. _:I look like I've been on the wrong end of an argument with Ambassador Shadowflame!_: Giff said.

The other Companion— a mare about Giff's age, named Lillin— snickered audibly. _:Oh, I don't think so. You haven't nearly enough holes in you for that.:_

_:You're not helping Lillin.:_

_:Who said anything about helping? I'm sure that if you think about it, you'll come to the conclusion that there is actually some justification for the lumps on your head.:_ Lillin fixed him with a stern look that was far older than her years.

Giff sighed loudly. _:You know, a little sympathy wouldn't go amiss— I have a new-Chosen who's sole purpose in life seems to be to _kill_ me painfully!_:

Lillin shook her head and made a clucking sound. _:Don't exaggerate.:_

_:Okay, okay, but still; this is hardly anything that the elders mention when you go out on Search, is it?_:

_:Well, someone had to go… wherever it was you went… to find his Chosen, didn't he? I'm half surprised that your Michael has been coping as well as he has.:_ Lillin looked sideways at Giff. _:Minor breakdowns non-withstanding.:_

Giff couldn't think of a reply to that so he merely heaved another sigh.

_:Where is he, if you don't mind me asking?_:

Giff twitched all over. _:Our bond is not strong and he is managing to block me out, but Dadero said that he'd been called into Healer's by the mages a short while back,_: he couldn't keep the tone of worry out of his voice. Even though Michael _did_ average one object thrown at his head a day, he was still Giff's Chosen.

_:Ah,_: Lillin sounded uncertain. _:I wonder why?_:

_:I honestly don't know.:_

-----

After been hustled along what seemed like _every _single corridor in the whole of Healer's Collegium— _twice_— Michael found himself perching uncomfortably on the edge of a wooden chair in a small, whitewashed room, nervously eyeing up the other people in the room.

Not all of the people were human, and one of them was _definitely_ part of the reason why the room felt as small as it did. Michael swallowed as quietly as he could manage and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible to Dadero. The Groveborn Companion had paced into the room through an open pair of glazed garden doors a few moments before and now appeared to be in deep conversation with Gillan and a serious looking woman dressed in a floor-length white robe, trimmed with golden-brown.

The final occupant of the room looked like a lynx on steroids. Serious steroids. Its attention was on the Companion and two humans and it hadn't started talking in Michael's head.

Yet.

Michael tried to stare at the giant cat-creature as surreptitiously as possible; the thing looked like it could chew Hirrn in two without noticing, and then make serious inroads into the gryphon. Tarii!

_:I am a ratha, silly human,_: the amused voice rang in Michael's mind. _:And I don't make a habit of eating anything that can answer back.:_

Michael jumped and emitted a squeak, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. His own gaze was fixed on the deep green eyes of the giant ca— ratha. "Um, sorry," he managed.

Gillan shook his head, muttered something under his breath and regained the attention of the woman.

The ratha continued to watch Michael, although one of its ears was twisted to catch the conversation between the Herald and the mage. _:That is quite alright. You're bound to have a somewhat… off kilter… perception of intelligent carnivores if your initial contact was with Healer Hirrn.:_ A feeling of intense amusement. _:Although the threat of unleashing her— or the blessed Tayledras Ambassador— on people is an efficient way to obtain civility.:_

"Oh," Michael said quietly.

_:I am Rhiska pral Lirrindal and I imagine that you would be the Michael that everyone keeps on talking about.:_

Michael's dyheli-powered super memory, which seemed to have briefly gone to sleep, abruptly woke up when the ratha gave her name; it informed him that— with that kind of name— Rhiska was from a place called Iftel.

"Yeah, that's me," Michael mumbled, unwilling to interrupt Gillan in case he got another glare.

_:Very well.:_ The ratha turned her attention back to the others, and Michael got the strangest sensation that her Mindvoice was suddenly… more _there_. _:I think we can go over the smallest details at a later date, Queen's Own, Groveborn. The reason Venni and I suggested you get young Michael there was to see if he could help us identify the… object. It seems pointless to keep him perched on a stool for longer than necessary.:_

"True," Gillan admitted reluctantly after a moment. "Very well, I leave this in your capable paws, Rhiska." The elderly man's face twisted for a moment and Michael wondered if he was going to be sick. "I will wait here, I have no wish to see… that… again and I believe Dadero feels the same."

"I understand," Venni said in a remote tone. "This is that last thing we need it—them— for." Her expression became slightly set. "Then I will oversee the cremation myself."

The Groveborn inclined his head gracefully to the woman and stepped closer to his Chosen, nudging Gillan on the shoulder.

_:Come on then, Trainee Michael,_: Rhiska said in a strangely gentle tone. _:Let us get unpleasant duty out of the way.:_

Michael stood up and followed the woman and the ratha out of the room. The last thing he saw, just before the door swung closed behind him was Gillan hugging Dadero's neck tightly, his expression tense and distraught.

After a moment of hurrying to keep up with the human and the ratha, Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Um, where are we going?"

Rhiska twitched her ears and looked back at Michael for a moment. _:I shall defer to you in this matter, Herald-Mage Venni,_: she said in oddly formal tones.

The mage nodded her head and slowed, so that Michael could walk next to her, Rhiska leading the way down the corridor. Michael looked at her sideways as much as he could without making it obvious that he was staring. The 'Herald-Mage' thing obvious explained the reason her robes were white. She looked tired, stressed and pretty much like Michael felt towards the end of every double shift he pulled in the E.R.

"Some… allies… were Gated here as an emergency," the Herald said. "There were pursued and badly injured by a Changeling; a construct made by magic, from other creatures." Venni swallowed. "Construct creatures are usually bound to the mage that created them. Their creator is the only one that can supply them with power to keep them alive, consequently a mage usually only has one or two constructs and the loss of a construct injures the mage magically."

_:The connection between a mage and a construct also means that a skilled mage can track one from the other,_: Rhiska offered. _:Under normal circumstances.:_

Venni nodded her agreement and continued before Michael could ask any questions. "Indeed, but this… thing… was different in several ways. Firstly because of its twisted nature and horrifying origins— and secondly because a part of it was like nothing we have ever seen in Valdemar— or in any of the known countries of our world."

Venni halted suddenly in front of a closed door and half spun to stare penetratingly at Michael.

"So, uh… what was… it? And why, um, do you need me?" Michael asked nervously. There was a faint metallic hint to the still, cool air in the corridor.

Venni paused, one hand on the door handle, and exchanged a brief look with Rhiska. "It was a Changeling-construct not bound to any mage and it was mostly made of a Herald called Nattan and a Companion called Zica." Venni's mouth spasmed and she closed her eyes and took a steadying breath, before opening them and fixing Michael with a direct gaze. "And it contained an object that is made of this world, but holds the form of something alien; something that is linked to you and your world."

Michael stepped back involuntarily, but found that he was unable to retreat any further, as Rhiska had crowded up behind him.

Venni swung open the door and a wave of sickly-sweet death smell rolled out to envelop them. "You are going to identify the object for us," she said in a toneless voice.

-----

The Darling generally known as Stripe was discontent. Mistress had sent it— and the others, except for pathetic-Rabbit— out to the north nearly two nights ago. Two nights in which the pack had only managed to corner a family of tree hares, which had barely provided amusement, let alone a meal. Stripe hummed to itself and absently chattered together the two halves of the tough grey, brown and green carapace that covered most of its back and protected its delicate wings.

The unequivocal leader of the Darling pack, Stripe had ordered the other three to scout ahead when they'd reached the edge of the strange forest that began up in the mountains and provided an easy route north. The Darling— a twisted combination of insect, great plains cat and human— shifted its weight slightly on the large tree branch it was using as a perch and used one wicked claw to pick tufts of fur out of its fangs. All the while, it watched its surroundings with faceted, reflective eyes; eyes that bulged out the front of a distorted feline face.

**_Leader—_**

Stripe stiffened and looked down. Point oozed out of the deep shadows of the foliage; the moonlight painting dapples over its matted woollen fur and tattered feathers.

_**What?—**_

Point twined itself around in a circle and looked obsequiously up at the pack leader. **_Village—_** it said eagerly. **_Rag and Gulp watch—_**

Stripe blinked and stood up, stretching with a cat-like suppleness at odds with its insectoid appearance. **_Many people?—_** it asked with interest.

**_Food—_** Point gaped its mouth open in a grin; revealing sharp carnivore teeth that were completely at odds with the dyheli-type face that it wore. The Darling half-spread its wings and crouched down. **_Hunt?—_**

Striped opened its carapace and spread its wings with an evil, buzzing sound. The pack leader flexed its claws in the branch, leaving splintered furrows, before letting go and adopting a hovering position in the air.

**_Hunt—_**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** Everything relating to the world of Velgarth, and the kingdom of Valdemar, is the sole property of the author Mercedes Lackey. Everything else is solely the fault of etcetera-cat.

**Notes:** Regin, Halla and all of the inhabitants of this Valdemar are the same characters as those in the _Day in the Life…_ series of one shots; Datti is the same Datti that also features in _Sound and Fury_ and _Serendipity_, which should go a long way to explaining her sparkling personality; Michael is just plain dazed, confused and frequently contused. I'm also pretending like this isn't appearing after a gap of some two years. Ahem. You can thank (or blame, depending on your perspective on my writing) Herald Jaelle for this.

**Chapter Thirteen.**

_**A confusion of Darlings – One battle, the aftermath thereof – Show and tell – Some very angry Companions**_

Gulp and Rag, construct creatures known only as 'Darlings' by their creator, were running for their lives. The sounds of pursuit behind them were finally fading into nothingness and the mismatched pair slowed their pace, blood and mud-splattered sides heaving as they fought to catch breath.

Whilst not the most attractive of creatures when healthy and whole, the two Darlings were now looking considerably worse for wear; one of Gulp's ragged black wings was missing most of its flight feathers, both of its antlers had been broken off short, as had the tip of its curved, carrion-bird beak and its hide— and unhealthy admixture of mangy russet fur and scuffed brown and grey scales— bore several deep gashes. Rag was looking no better; its wings were in a similarly denuded state, several broken teeth were apparent as it gaped it's elongated, hound-like, muzzle wide in an attempt to catch breath, one of its eyes was completely swollen shut and it was missing the end of its tufted plains-cat tail.

_**Mistress?—**_ Rag managed after a moment, swivelling it's head from side to side in an attempt to compensate for its reduced vision.

_**Angry—**_ Gulp replied nervously, limping forwards on fatigue-pained legs. _**Stripe dead, Point dead—**_

Rag shuffled after the other Darling, head held low. _**Mistress angry—**_

The two Darlings looked at each other for a long moment. _**Hide—**_ they decided in a mutual fashion. Gulp leading, they vanished into the quiet gloom of the deep forest.

*****

_:Are they calming down?_: Companion Fitch eyed the muttering group of townspeople a short distance away before turning her attention back to Darrin.

The Herald glanced up from the shallow wound on his right forearm and half-shrugged. "Well, they followed us back out of the forest, so I guess that's something?" he made his reply into a question as he used his vantage point of being in Fitch's saddle to survey the town (anywhere closer to Haven and this would have been a village, but out near the border, Applebeck was accorded the status of town) square.

Most of it was still filled with the still-uneasy mob— comprised mostly of the men of the town, the women and children having been barricaded into the town hall during the chaos of the attack by the… things.

Fitch and Darrin both involuntarily glanced in the direction of the two mis-shapen and bloody forms laying crumpled on the _other_ side of the square.

_:What are those creatures?_: Fitch shifted her weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, aware that their dash from Gate to Gate, then into the middle of the chaos in Applebeck and finally pell-mell out into the Forest after the surviving monsters, had set up shop in her legs as a dull muscle ache.

Another half-shrug. "We're just a simple Circuit team," he said. "I _do_ know that this has to be something to do with Nattan and Zica and—" he broke off for a moment and coughed. "—well. The mages will figure it all out."

Fitch sighed and shook her head from side to side. _:We are not simple anything, don't put yourself down.:_

"Fitch, I'm quite happy to be whatever makes me having little more to do with—" Darrin waved in the direction of the dead monsters.

Another sigh. _:You have a point.:_ The Companion mare twitched her hide all over. _:Speaking of which, I've spoken to Dadero. The mages want you to activate the Gate token now.:_

Darrin blinked in surprise. "Already?" he said uncertainly. "I thought they hated putting up that many Gates to the same place in such a short space of time?"

_:Exceptional circumstances.: _Fitch switched her gaze from the dead monsters to the milling towns people and back again. _:Besides, if we don't get those things out of here soon, there's going to be nothing left except ashes. The Mayor has a very pyromanical expression on his face.:_

Darrin dredged up a tired smile at his Companion's weak attempt at humour. "I suppose you know best. Just so long as I don't have to dismount, I think I'll fall off."

Fitch snorted and eyed him. _:I was the one doing all the running,_: she pointed out. _:Just activate it and throw it on the ground in a clear space. I don't particularly want them landing on us.:_

"As you command." Darrin dug around the front of his tunic and finally extracted an oddly carved amalgam of wood and stone on the end of a leather thong, which he held in his hands for a long moment. Fitch shivered as she felt her Chosen touch the thing with his mind, using his Gifts to trigger it to an 'awake' state. Darrin then pitched it at a clear patch of ground. As soon as it landed, it began to glow. "Here comes the cavalry."

*****

Michael was sitting on a bench, his head practically between his knees, trying very hard to hold onto his breakfast. At least the air out here didn't smell of anything worse than lavender and soil.

Sitting on the ground next to him was Rhiska, the ratha mage. It had been her that had escorted him from the room containing the remains of the Changeling, and she was now the one keeping an eye on him just in case he decided to pass out. Venni had stayed behind in the room with the Changeling, Michael hadn't asked why; he'd been too concerned with getting _outside_ as quickly as possible.

_:Would you like a drink of water?_:

Michael turned his head sideways slightly and blinked at the large cat-creature. "You don't have hands," he said, somewhat stupidly.

Rhiska half closed her eyes and made a sound remarkably like a stifled chuckle. _:I do have a mouth, though, and a flask with a carry rope.:_ She nudged at the small clay flask that Michael hadn't even noticed had been placed next to his feet with one golden-brown paw. _:Sipping some water should help settle your stomach.:_

"I know." Michael clumsily reached for the flask and spent a few moment wrestling the cork stopper out of it before sitting up and taking a drink. The water was icy cold and flavoured slightly with mint leaves.

"Are you a Healer too?"

Another chuckle-like sound. _:Most assuredly not. I am a mage, Michael. One of the unfortunate side-effects of certain kinds of magic is a certain… queasiness… hence the water.:_

Michael blanched slightly as his memory flashed up an image of the dead Changeling and he took a hasty gulp of the water.

_:Ah, apologies.:_ Rhiska twitched her tail at him. _:This is not the time for frivolous discussion. Forgive me for pressing you, but we do need to know if you recognise the object we obtained from the Changeling?_:

Michael took in a deep breath and tried to convince himself that, as an ER doctor, he should not be this ill at the sight of some blood and gore (although it was more the everything _else_— but he wasn't going to think about that). The object in question had been something that Venni had shown him only after donning a pair of silk-lined gauntlets. Both she and Rhiska had treated the thing as if it were a stick of unstable dynamite.

"I'm sorry," Michael said, shaking his head slowly. "It just looked like a bit of crystal, shaped like a cylinder."

_:Hmm.:_ Rhiska's expression went distant as she mulled over his words. _:Well, I must admit, it was a bit of a long shot on our parts. I apologise again for subjecting you to—_:

The ratha suddenly stopped mid sentence and Michael found himself staring at her as she seemed to increase in size. After a moment, he realised that she was fluffing up her coat; within short order she had a definite bottle-brush of a tail.

"Um, hello?" Michael uncertainly waved his hand in front of her face, wary of the possibility of being bitten. The taking animals (and Heralds) seemed to make a habit out of this inability to complete a conversation without staring off into space at least _once._

Rhiska shook herself all over and stared at him in confusion for a moment. _:Ah, the Mage's Gate has just been activated,_: she said. _:It's being redirected here. I think you should come with me.:_

However else she may have been wildly different from Hirrn, Rhiska seemed to share the kyree's sublime confidence that Michael would follow her when ordered to do so. For lack of anything better to do, Michael found himself doing exactly that after he re-corked the flask and stuffed it awkwardly in one of his pockets. It crossed his mind that it wasn't just the white horses that were the bossy ones.

"Where are we going?" Michael hurried after the ratha. He wasn't really expecting an answer, so not getting one didn't really upset him. At least with things just happening to him all the time, he didn't get a chance to brood on the whole _stuck in a weird-ass parallel dimension_ thing.

Four legs definitely seemed to be an advantage in the speed stakes; Michael found himself getting winded as he tried to keep up with Rhiska, and he nearly had his nose smacked off his face when the door she'd barged through swung back unnaturally quickly. Michael just managed to catch it and followed her through.

And promptly froze.

They appeared to be standing in a large, bare courtyard. The ground was covered in pebbles, sand, and paving stones laid out in weird patterns and the edges of the courtyard were crowded with an assortment of people and creatures. Michael couldn't really bring himself to try and identify them, his attention was being irresistibly dragged to the focus of everyone else's attention.

The Gate terminus at the centre of the courtyard.

At first glance, it looked like an ornately carved stone archway. Nothing too fascinating, right? Michael shook his head and blinked, unable to quite believe what he was seeing. The centre of the archway was full of swirling colours. It looked like someone had spilt oil on a puddle and then managed to stand the whole thing up on edge and somehow shine a light through it. It was entrancing.

"It's stabilising."

Michael glanced sideways for the source of the voice— the Tayledras Ambassador, Shadowflame, was standing directly opposite the Gate, an expression of concentration on her face— but found his attention dragged back to the hypnotically moving colours after a bare couple of seconds. He was aware of Shadowflame out of the corner of his eye, however. This was mainly because she seemed to have a faint reflection of the twisting rainbow-images of the Gate around herself.

Rhiska eeled around the edge of the courtyard and came to stand a short distance behind Shadowflame. Although Michael didn't hear the ratha say anything, from Shadowflame's impatient head-shake, he gathered that Rhiska was talking to the Mage.

"There," Shadowflame said suddenly. Michael failed to prevent himself from gaping as the oil-slick flashed transparent and he suddenly found himself staring at the image of a rural looking village square set against a backdrop of what was surely the most intimidating forest to ever exist.

The square was filled with people—many of them waving sharp implements of some description—and foremost amongst them were a Herald and Companion, both of them splattered with mud and something black and sticky looking.

"Ma'am." The Herald inclined his head and, if anything, Michael felt his mouth dropping open further. That man—that Herald—was standing god only knows where and he was _talking_ to them through a magic _hole_.

_:Applebeck.:_ Michael started as Rhiska appeared next to him without seeming to cross the intervening space between himself and Shadowflame. _:The town; it's called Applebeck and it's down on the south-west border. Near the Pelagirs. Stand back.:_

Michael was shoved to one side, and then there were people streaming through the Gate—more of the funny lizard men, and some men that entirely fitted the description 'built like a brick shit house'. "What are they doing?"

_:Retrieving them.:_ Rhiska indicated the first canvas-wrapped bundle that three of the hertasi and two of the men were dragging through the Gate.

The rest were gathered around a second bundle that was laying on the ground just in front of the Companion's hooves. Michael hadn't even noticed them until this point.

"They—they aren't what I think they are, are they?"

Rhiska sighed heavily and made no other reply. Michael swallowed and watched the haulage crew return through the Gate with the second bundle, dragging it away into the building after the first group.

"It won't stay up for much longer," Shadowflame snapped in a strained sounding voice. "Tell whichever of those bleached idiots it is to get a move on or they'll be walking."

"We're here—we're here!" A man dressed in Heraldic Whites trimmed in Mage gold bustled through the door, a blue leather pack slung over one shoulder. Close behind him was a Companion mare decked out in blue tack, with more bags attached to her saddle.

"Then if you would _please_, Thaddin," Shadowflame shot back. "Holding a Gate open for this long is not my idea of a good time."

The Companion snorted and trotted through the Gate without a backwards glance. Thaddin essayed an awkward half bow in the Tayledras Adept's direction. "Hirrn wanted to make sure we had enough medical supplies for the town," he explained. "I had a job balancing Eluthie's tack out—"

"Herald-Mage Thaddin," Shadowflame ground out. Michael noticed that she was trembling ever so slightly.

"Ma'am!" The Herald turned and stepped through the Gate. A mere moment later it flashed out of existence, like a piece of tissue paper consumed by fire.

Shadowflame sagged slightly, leaning heavily on her walking stick. Michael started to cross the courtyard to help her, but her grim expression stopped him in his tracks before he'd managed more than a few steps.

_:Well,_: Rhiska said into the sudden, pregnant silence. _:We'd best go and see what Darrin, Fitch and the good people of Applebeck have caught us. Come along, Michael.:_

Michael was careful to keep his groan of dismay entirely to himself.

*****

The plate hit the stone wall with force, shattering into hundreds of glazed shards. It was quickly followed by another plate and a metal goblet that clanged off the wall and hit the floor hard enough to through up a cloud of ceramic dust. The scarred state of the wall bore testament to the fact that the crockery abuse had been going on for some time.

"It is not to be borne out, Dupe!"

"N-no, Mistress."

A wine glass this time, fragments sparkling crazily in the candle light as the scattered across the wooden floor.

"_Two_ of them! Taken down by mere peasants and one of those cursed Heralds! Do you have any idea how long it took me to make those Darlings?"

"No, Mistress."

"Of course you don't, Dupe. Because you are an _idiot_. Get out of my sight and find out where the rest of those miserable excuses for constructs have hidden themselves. I want _answers._"

The scuttling away of a pair of nervous feet was mostly drowned out by the sounds of five more plates and three more wine glasses hitting the wall in quick succession.

*****

Michael was now convinced that there was such a place as Hell. It was the only way to explain the… monsters…that he'd been forced to help examine and dissect. He wasn't even sure _why_. By all rights the crazed people around here should have been treating him with extreme suspicion and maybe locking him in a cellar somewhere.

Instead they'd locked him in a room with themselves, several talking animals, two dead monsters, and had then taken the time to occasionally wave things under his nose for identification.

Michael was giving serious though to reconsidering his career choice as a doctor. He'd seen more wobbly purple things than any one person should have to see in a single day.

Now he was sitting on a low wooden bench in a room that was done out entirely in white tiles; Rhiska and Hirrn were sitting either side of him, and all three of them were staring at the trio of crystal cylinders that Michael had in his cupped hands.

Herald-Mage Venni had just vanished to inform the Queen and Circle that Michael had identified the strange objects. She had told him to be prepared to explain things as the Circle was sure to call him themselves within the mark.

Michael sighed and closed his eyes. His head ached and he had the copper smell of blood lodged in his nose.

_:What did you say they were called, again?_: Hirrn sniffed at them cautiously.

"They look batteries. Like someone's seen a battery and carved a mimic of it out of stone."

_:Unrefined quartz,_: Rhiska said softly. _:They are keyed to hold an enormous amount of power, much more than a focus stone usually would.:_

_:That,_: Hirrn said slowly, _:I do not like the sound of.:_


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **Not mine at all, except for the bits which are (they're easily to spot, they're odd shapes and slightly sticky).

**Notes: **I seem to jump straight from piling things on up to resolving them? I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not. Also, Jaelle asked me nicely (and, seriously? I need prompting to remember things like you would not believe).

**Chapter Fourteen**

_**Illumination of several sorts **__**– Philosophy of a kind – Cookery, except not – Storm warning**_

It was past midnight by the time Giff heard sounds of movement from inside Michael's room. The Companion jerked himself out of the half dose he'd been in, pricked his ears and stepped towards the ajar window. The sounds inside—low mutters, and the scrabbling-scratch sounds of someone who was not at all used to candles and lamps as a form of illumination—could only be from his Chosen, but Giff still hesitated a moment before announcing his presence.

It wasn't exactly like he had _good_ associations with this window.

A faint yellow glow flickered and caught within the room; obviously Michael had won his fight with at least one candle.

_:Michael?_: Giff poked his head around the window frame and found that the young man in question was half sitting, half sprawling on his bed, looking as if he'd been through several wringers of differing sizes. _:Michael, are you well?_:

Michael grunted and waved one hand half-heartedly in the air. "No talking, more sleeping," he mumbled.

Giff sighed. _:In that case, don't you think you'd manage to do that better by undressing and actually getting into your bed?_:

Another grunt, but at least this time Michael opened his eyes and squinted in Giff's direction. "What?"

_:Your bed. I heard that it's easier to sleep if you're actually in it.:_

"I guess." As Michael made a half-hearted attempt to sit up and slide off the bed, Giff side-stepped so that he was able to stick his head fully into the room.

_:How did the Council meeting go?_:

Michael paused in the act of trying to undo his shirt. "I thought you'd be eavesdropping with all the other talking animals—hey! Shut your eyes! I'm not about to put on a show here."

_:Michael, I'm a Companion—_your_ Companion.:_ Giff caught sight of the expression that Michael was wearing and, over his shoulder, a dim reflection of himself in the small silvered glass hanging on the wall. His nose was still a distressing shade of purple. _:Okay, okay,_: Giff amended hastily, _:I'm shutting my eyes right now.:_

"So," Michael continued after a moment, "why weren't you eavesdropping?"

Giff twitched his ears, feeling somewhat silly for carrying on a conversation with his eyes shut. _:It was a closed session. You did notice how only the Privy Council, Alliance Envoys and the Collegium heads were there? Besides it not being polite to try and listen in on a closed session like that, the Mages always put up some serious shields, so it's fairly impossible.:_

"Oh." Muffled, as if Michael had fabric covering his face. "Well, all I know is that a whole load of really grumpy people kept on asking me the same impossible questions over and over again. I mean; I know enough to changes fuses and rewire a plug, but I totally drifted through physics as much as I could get away with in school. It's not like I'm an engineer or electrician."

Possibly, Giff imagined, that would make sense at some point.

"At any rate; they got bored after a while, and then the Tayledras woman, Shadowflame? She got into it with someone and Rhiska suggested I sneak out."

_:Imagine; Shadowflame having an argument with someone.:_

Michael startled Giff by snorting something that sounded remarkably like laughter. Giff almost opened his eyes to check that it _was_ laughter, and not his Chosen having a brainstorm or anything, but decided at the last moment that he rather liked not having blazing argument or having things thrown at his head.

"Has she always been that…"

_:Belligerent? Confrontational?_: Giff supplied. _:Certainly in the whole time she's been in Valdemar, yes. There are rumours around the Field that when she was back in the Vales, before she had the accident that gave her the limp, she was much more easy-going. But, well; that's supposedly what someone overheard Hirrn say and _she's_ not exactly all honey coating and sunshine.:_

Another smothered snort of probably-laughter. "They both give the impression of wanting to bite you in two, don't they? You can open your eyes now."

Giff blinked against the sudden brightness of the candle. _:Something like that,_: he agreed.

"I don't know what they're going to do. I don't suppose that you—?"

_:That's why I was asking you.:_ Giff suppressed the urge to flinch. There wasn't anything particularly contentious about his tone, but Michael seemed to take exception to, well, pretty much everything.

All Michael did, however, was sigh, so Giff relaxed.

"I don't know how they expect me to help," he said despondently. "I mean; there's people here who can blow stuff up with their _minds_. How much more use am I going to be?"

Unbidden from Michael's mind, Giff received an image of one of the outdoor Gift classes that he'd seen a few days ago. A youngster with unruly black hair was demonstrating her Firestarting Gift by detonating acorns in a methodical line.

The window frame was very useful for reaching the itchy spot just behind Giff's ear, and he availed himself of it as he tried to think of a response to Michael's question.

_:I—Companions can't Choose wrongly, you know.:_

"So everybody and all the books I've been given keep on trying to convince me." Michael cracked open his eyes enough to give Giff an opaque look.

_:It's the truth,_: Giff felt the need to say.

Michael rolled over and gave him a more comprehensive version of the opaque look.

_:Michael, I believe that everything happens for a reason, and I believe that Valdemar has a reason for needing you__.:_ Giff tried to put the sincere belief that he had in that behind the words. From Michael's expression of scepticism, the Companion was only partly successful.

"You know, the other theme in the books I've been reading is that your country's big damn heroes end up with big damn deaths." Michael flung one arm over his eyes and yawned. "I'm not being set up, if that's what you lot are thinking."

Giff flattened his ears at the tone in Michael's voice, which wobbled right on the edge of the place where things usually got thrown at Giff's head.

_:I won't let anything happen to you.:_

"Yeah, right."

_:I'm serious, Michael. You are my Chosen, I will not let anything happen to you unless I'm there, standing next to you.:_

Another, jaw cracking yawn. "You know, that's not as reassuring as you think it is."

Giff sighed. _:One thing I don't have certainty about is the future; no one does. I—just—I'm always going to be with you, please believe that.:_

Michael mumbled something that could have been agreement, but was lost amidst a yawn that was so significant Giff felt his own jaw ache in sympathy.

_:You should get some sleep, Chosen.:_ Something remarkably similar to a faint snore answered the Companion's observation. Sighing, Giff extracted himself from the window and glanced thoughtfully in the direction of Companion's Field. As much as he didn't want to, perhaps it was time to beard the Grove Born in his Grove.

*****

The Mistress had flown fully through the breadth of her anger and was now residing firmly on the glacial plains of utter fury thanks to whatever information that she had extracted from her surviving Darlings. Even Dupe, half-witted and spell-bound as she was had scraped up enough common sense to go and herself lost amongst the scrub bushes and hills surrounding the Mistress's keep once she had found the Darlings and sent them to the Mistress.

Consequentially, she had missed the vast majority of the extended bout of destruction that had accompanied the Mistress's flight through bad temper. What Dupe hadn't missed, some three candlemarks later, was the way that the geas-charm tattooed onto her left wrist had flared with orange-green light and acid-burned at her skin like the day the Mistress had put it there.

Dupe had crouched low to the rocky ground, ignoring the way the sharp edges of gravel dug into her shins and forearms in favour of cowering as much under a dead thorn bush as she could.

The charm burning that way signalled the use of only one spell; that the Mistress had used it could only mean that she was intent on nothing less than a battle—one which she was determined to win.

Dupe pressed further under the bush as growing sounds of stones slithering and falling against each other, crunching with footsteps, began to echo around the hills. The first to pass her was a thin, elderly fox, its gait stiff and its face twisted in a mindless rictus. Trailing a short distance behind the fox, like recalcitrant children instead of a potential meal, were two rock-hares and at least half a dozen mice. After them, there was a dirt encrusted man, his mule (its pack still bearing the simple mining equipment of its master) shambling after it. A crow, moth-eaten and silent, blundered drunkenly through the air above.

All of them were heading the direction of the Keep.

Dupe wrapped thorn-scratched arms around herself and keened quietly with near-mindless fear. The Mistress was in a mood for making, and she'd Summoned the fodder to make that possible.

*****

For the first time, Michael found himself waking up without any more than his usual amount of post-sleep disorientation. He wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not. On the one hand; no more braining himself on the bedside table as he flailed his way out from between alien sheets, on the other hand; getting used to living in a medieval fantasy land where pretty much every man and his dog (especially his dog) could talk inside his head.

Frowning as the chill nature of the room announced that the window had been open all night, Michael burrowed further under the bed covers and actually put some thought into figuring out just how long he'd been party to the freak show.

At least two weeks, maybe three. He seemed to spend at least one day out of four rendered unconscious by one thing or another. The one creature who would know—and would probably tell him straight, was probably Giff. Michael tentatively reached for the place in his mind that _wasn't him_ and tried to make it feel questioning. While he couldn't actually _speak_ to the Companion (and wasn't that unfair? No freaky telepathy powers like every _other_ damn thing he'd come across), Giff had assured him that he had enough receptive Mindspeech to attract his attention if he thought about it.

Except…not this morning.

Usually, trying to prod that little patch in his mind made Michael think of something the consistency of a jelly-filled sponge, and was shortly followed by a large white talking horse putting in a nervous appearance. Today the patch was slick; slippery and hard like glass, and even thinking _hello?_ at it until Michael could feel a headache starting behind his eyes produced absolutely nothing in the way of a Companion.

Michael eased himself out of bed slowly, hissing as one foot missed the brightly coloured rag-rug on the floor and came into contact with the cold flag stones. That was distinctly odd and, if Michael admitted it to himself, worrying as well.

As he wrestled with the arcane lacing of one of the grey tunics that the Housekeeper of the Heraldic Collegium had provided him with, Michael also admitted to himself that a large part of his worry was centred on Giff. Infuriating and cavalier certainty about what was right aside, Michael was fond of the Companion.

His Companion.

The slight headache spiked suddenly and Michael rubbed at his forehead with a grimace. Fine; it looked as if he was going to have to find some information out on his own and the best place that he could think of to do that was from either Hirrn or Rhiska. It shouldn't be that hard to find the kyree or the ratha. After all, he was still living in the House of Healing, and the Mage's Collegium was only a little way along the bank of the river. Not too big a job, even for a clueless foreigner with a headache and a gimpy ankle.

Shuffling down the corridor and out into one of the mathematically precise herb gardens that spread out from the end of the building his room was in, Michael squinted and rubbed at his head again. There was a strange heaviness in the air, one that weighed him down and gnawed on the pain in his head.

There must be a storm on the way.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **Continually not mine, except for the broken bits. I promise to stick them back on at some point? Maybe even in the right order?

**Notes: **Somehow, I'm guessing this isn't actually going to be filled with revelations for anyone other than Giff and Michael…

**Chapter Fifteen**

_**Books, stained and odious – A gryphon, slightly foxed – A Michael, very confused**__** – Companions, a meeting of – Knowledge, the uncomfortable sort**_

As it happened, Michael had barely made it to the end of the corridor before running into Hirrn's assistant, Trannen. Literally; they were forced to grab at each to prevent from falling over as they staggered sideways, and Tran's armload of books cascaded to the floor. A particularly heavy tome landed corner-first on Michael's foot—the same one that was attached to his still gimpy ankle, no less—and he yelped something that could have been either a curse in Valdemaran or English, but was certainly piercing enough to injure the hearing of any bats in the vicinity.

"Heyla!" The muffled exclamation made Michael realise that their dance of not falling over had ended up with Trannen sandwiched up against a doorframe, most of Michael's weight leaning on him.

"Sorry!" Michael jerked himself back to vertical and stepped back a short distance. "I wasn't looking where I was going and—"

Trannen waved one hand in Michael's direction as he gasped in a few deep breaths, turning his face from a stifled looking red to a more normal colour. "No worries," he managed after a moment. "Was buzzing about like a horsefly myself."

The Healer began picking up his scattered books and Michael bent over awkwardly to help. Some of the books smelt distinctly odd, and one had a truly spectacular blue stain on its otherwise pale tan cover.

"Thanks," Tran said as he accepted some of the books. "Hirrn's been nagging at me to get these back from Garth, although I doubt she's going to be pleased when she sees the state of them."

Michael mentally pictured the kyree finding out that someone had been defacing her books and rapidly decided that he did not wish to be the chew toy upon which she relieved her feelings. Any and all intelligence he wanted about _anything_ would be best gained at Mage's Collegium. At least over there, they'd only blow him up and fire long-winded explanations that made no sense in his general direction.

Tran, unfortunately, seemed to have different plans. Before Michael could manage to stuff the rest of the books back into Tran's arms, the young man had hustled the pair of them across the main entry hall of Healer's Collegium and down the corridor that contained Hirrn's suite of rooms.

"Hirrn, it's me," Tran announced loudly as he fumbled open the door. "You might want to book up a good fight with Yaul for later on."

_:Why in the name of the Star-eyed Lady of the Shin'a'in would I want to do that?_: Hirrn sniffed as Michael unwillingly followed Tran into the room. The kyree was reclining comfortably on a pile of cushions that were pushed up against the far wall of the room. The reason for _that_ was the gryphon that was taking up most of the rest of the room. Michael froze in the fact of so much grey and black predator.

"Hullo, Tarii," Tran said unconcernedly, threading his way around the gryphon as if such an activity was commonplace. "I thought you were out running practice with the Guard today?"

"Tcah!"

Hirrn rolled her eyes at the disgusted sound the gryphon made. _:That is precisely why she is here, waiting for your capable hands to take over where my Healing Gift left off. And don't try to change the subject, Tran. Why would I need to hunt out that insufferable dyheli?_:

Tran sighed. "Some of your books are a bit messed up. Nothing fatal, and I'm sure that a good airing will get rid of the smell and that someone in the Palace library can fix the stains."

_:Smell?_: Hirrn asked dangerously, flaring her nostrils. _:Stains?_:

Michael gulped and looked around for somewhere to put down the books so that he could beat a hasty retreat.

"Isss like citrruss," Tarii put forth unexpectedly. "What wass Garrrth doing with the books?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Tran said firmly. "Now, I'm guessing you're hanging around because you need some feathers imped in _again_?"

The gryphon's ear tufts flattened against her head as Michael belatedly noticed that she did look rather dusty and windblown compared to their last meeting.

"Isss not my fault that ssstupid rrrecrruitss do not understand sssimple insstrructionss," she said in an aggrieved tone. "I wasss _drrrropping _the tarrrgetss, not _being_ the tarrrget."

"Except that someone misunderstood the instructor, right?"

"Tcah," Tarii spat out. "Ssnapping arrrrowss out of the airrr iss not fun. I wrrrenched a wing."

_:And made a mess of landing, hence the broken feathers. Trannen, my books; what _precisely _has happened to them?_:

"Michael has the worst ones." Trannen waved in Michael's direction, ignoring the death glare that Michael sent his way while simultaneously trying to blend in with the woodwork of the door.

Michael attempted a nervous smile as both the nonhumans stared at him. In the background, Tran was rummaging in a large wooden chest, occasionally pulling out brushes and stoppered pots.

_:Well, bring them over here and let me see the damage.:_

Michael sidled towards the kyree, keeping as close to the walls as he possibly could. Tarii did not sound to be in a particularly fine mood and Michael definitely did not want to be on any more lunch menus than he had to be. He'd gotten as far as holding out the first of the books (the interestingly stained one, he noticed, was still in his possession, and he took care to keep that at the bottom of the pile) for Hirrn to inspect when she looked sharply at him.

_:You Feel terrible, sit down.:_

"Uh, what?" Michael looked uncertainly at Hirrn as she pulled herself to her feet and began inspecting him closely.

_:I am not in the habit of repeating myself.:_

Michael sat down on the nearest cushion; something large and soft and a uniformly hideous orange colour.

"What's wrong?" Tran asked. Michael turned to look at him and saw that the Healer was sitting with one of Tarii's wings spread over his lap like a blanket. The gryphon herself was regarding him in what he hoped was merely an interested fashion.

_:His aura's playing at silly buggers,_: Hirrn asserted, glaring at Michael as if suspecting him of doing things to his aura deliberately.

_As if I knew how!_

_:Have you been sleeping enough? That idiotic horse of yours hasn't tried to stuff anything else into your head, has he?_:

"Um, yes to the first and no to the second, I think."

_:__Hmmph.:_ Hirrn sat back on her haunches and gave Michael a steady look.

"Maybe he wasss just worried that you would take exssception to your booksss being harrrmed?" Tarii asked. She ignored the offended glare from the kyree and continued: "Trrannen, thossse featherrrsss _arrre_ sstill attached to me."

"Sorry, Tarii," Tran mumbled around the paintbrush handle he was holding between his teeth, "but you've mashed up some of these primaries something awful."

"_I _did not masssh, the _grrround_ massshed."

Hirrn scratched at an ear with one foot, making herself look remarkably dog-like for a brief moment, and returned her attention to Michael. _:Did you have any particular reason for visiting me? Apart from your headache, that is.:_

"How did you know that I had a headache?"

_:I am a Healer, Michael.__ The bottle on that shelf over there; take two of the tablets in it, you should feel better.:_

"Oh." Michael picked up the pottery bottle indicated and helped himself to two of the powdery tablets contained in it. Aware of the hideous taste the last time that he'd taken something that Hirrn had prescribe for a headache, Michael tried to swallow them as quickly as possibly, and was faintly surprised when he was left with a peppermint taste in his mouth.

Across the room, Tran looked up from the broken feather shaft that he was smoothing off and sniggered. "They take a bit longer to work, but I don't deem it essential that everything that's good for you should taste like bird leavings."

_:Quite,_: Hirrn said with some dignity as Tarii added her own burbling wheeze to Trannen's laughter. _:So, Michael, the other reason you were looking for me?_:

Michael coughed. "Oh, um, I was wondering if you could explain some stuff for me."

"We?" Tarii seemed to automatically include herself. "We arre nothing but poorrr, ignorrrant outlanderrrss."

"I think that's probably the point, Tarii." Tran nudged the gryphon in the side with a brush. "I don't suppose you remembered to bring your moult feathers with you?"

"He isss sssitting on them." Tarii airily waved a claw in Michael's direction. "And I ssuppossse that we arrre the naturrral place to loook forrr wissdom."

Michael hastily shifted himself sideways and discovered that there was a roll of fabric partly under the cushion he was sitting on. He extracted it; it was longer than he expected and felt almost like it contained sticks of some kind, and held it uncertainly until Tarii snagged it deftly and passed it to Tran.

_:You are the natural place to look for ego.:_

"Thank you, dearrr aunt." Tarii inclined her head in a regal fashion. Michael was surprised to realise that the he recognised the expression on the gryphon's face as mischievous humour.

_:Michael?_:

Hirrn's question wasn't something that Michael could pay attention to: he was watching as Trannen unrolled the cloth bundle and revealed it to contain feathers of almost every shape and size. The one the Healer selected must have been at least four feet in length, and was a faded black colour.

"I'm going to have to re-dye you when I've glued these in, otherwise you're going to look like a patchwork quilt," Tran observed, holding the feather up against Tarii's outspread wing.

_:Michael,_: Hirrn repeated. _:I am entirely sure that the 'stuff' you wished to know did not include how to become a trondi'irn, and staring at a gryphon only ever encourages them to preen more.:_

"Oh, um," Michael started, before being interrupted by Tarii:

"I am perrrfection, of courrrsse he looksss."

_:Thank you, Tarii.:_

"Giff won't talk to me," Michael said uncomfortably. "And I'm pretty sure that there's a lot of meetings happening about me, and it's kinda freaking me out and—I don't know."

"Frrreaking out? I like that terrrm."

_:Forgive me, Michael, but you have not seemed entirely comfortable with being Chosen. I would have thought that a degree of distance between your Companion and yourself would be preferable.:_

"Well…"

Hirrn gaped her mouth in what could only be a smile. _:Ah, the famed Herald-Companion bond is putting in an appearance.:_

"The what?" Michael asked uncertainly, over the background mutterings of Tarii and Tran.

_:You have felt it; the thing that binds you and Giff together. It is the same for every Herald and their Companion.:_

"Oh." Michael shifted around on his cushion. Strangely, that did make a certain amount of sense, and it fitted in with the information that some of his magical dyheli memories had been trying to tell him. "But, the meetings? What are they _saying_ about me?"

_:Meetings are something that infest the Palace,_: Hirrn said wisely. _:There may well be a covey of privy meetings happening at the moment, but there is nothing major that can happen without a meeting of the full Council being convened and…well. You are a Herald-trainee; Halla would not order you to do something without your consent, and certainly wouldn't propose anything to put you in unnecessary danger.:_

"It's the 'unnecessary' that has me worried." Michael crossed his arms and resisted the urge to shiver.

*****

Giff had finally managed to track The Groveborn down to—where else?—the Grove. Which was strange, because the five previous times during the night that he had wandered through the Grove, there had been not a Companion in sight. But still; Dadero was in the Grove now, and that was what counted. Giff just had to march up to him and ask what he wasn't being told, and what was going to happen to his Chosen.

Marching would be a lot easier if Giff's legs didn't feel like soggy reeds.

_:Um.:_ Giff paused at the edge of the clearing that was, for all magical intents and purposes, the centre of the Grove, and froze, unable to go any further. Although Dadero had a certain presence about him at all times, when in the Grove, the Companion was a distinct cause for collywobbles.

_:Ah, Giff.:_ Dadero gave Giff an expectant look, enough to convince the young Companion to venture the few steps onto the thickly moss-covered ground of the clearing.

_:I was, um, wondering what was—that is, I meant to ask about—um. The Mages are having a lot of meetings; the Circle and Privy Council too and I—_: Giff flattened his ears and lowered his head. _:My Chosen. What's going to happen to him?_:

_:Well, you two are certainly a match for each other in wits, if nothing else.:_ Kit stamped into view from behind Dadero and gave Giff an unimpressed look. _:He's here now, Dadero. We may as well get started.:_

_:Get started?_: Giff asked nervously. Rustling and the sound of hoof steps had him jerking his head around, staring at the edges of the clearing as more Companions ghosted into sight. To a hair, they were all Companions who had Heralds in positions of power. Giff counted the Companions to the Deans of both Heraldic and Mages' Collegium; the Lord Marshall's and Seneschal's Heralds; the Weaponsmaster; at least five others—not including Kit—who had Heralds who were at least Master strength mages, and, last but by no means least, Regin, the Queen's Companion.

A very large part of Giff wanted to scream and run away until he found a nice, quiet hole to hide in.

_:Indeed. Thank you, Kit.:_ Dadero flicked one ear and gestured at the other Companions with his head. _:As you can see, Giff, those of us gathered here all have Chosen who hold offices of import.:_

_:What he means,_: Kit interrupted, _:is that we know what's going on, and what's going on seems to be centring inordinately around your Chosen.:_

_:While Kit is as delicate as ever, she is correct.:_ Regin stepped up to stand on the other side of Dadero to Kit. _:Giff, the mages—all of them—have been trying to scry to the south since the k'Verei party Gated here after being attacked, but there's something blocking them. And also blocking our Farseers.:_

_:Someone,: _a mare called Valeryn added, _:does not want us to see what they are getting up to.:_

_:Um, okay?_: Giff glanced around, hoping that he looked as puzzled as he felt, because then maybe would take some pity on him and actually explain things plainly.

_:The one thing that the mages agree on is that there is a dark mage at our southern border. A dark mage with a new way to make and power constructs. We've seen the proof in this by what happened to Zica and Nattan, and in what Fitch and Darrin sent back to us.:_ Dadero heaved a deep sigh. _:The mages have some reason to suspect that this mage's power source is from the same world as Michael, and, given the evidence, I am very much inclined to agree with them.:_

Giff backed up a step. _:What evidence—and what are you implying?_:

It was Fedarrin, Companion to the Dean of Mages' Collegium who answered. _:While we can't scry directly, we can certainly Read the land around the Comb—where this mage seems to have set up camp— and the patterns in the ley are similar to those we experienced when you arrived with your Chosen.:_

Giff pinned his ears back and retreated a few more steps. _:Surely you don't think that my Chosen is in league with a dark mage!_:

_:That is not what Fedarrin said, Giff__.:_ Dadero shook his head. _:There are as many differences between the disturbances to the ley that this mage and your escapades caused, as there are similarities. However, from what some of the mages have sensed, whatever this mage brought through…it was not done correctly. This thing, this 'battery' that your Chosen identified, is a corrosive presence. Anything that touches it, other than its owner, is destroyed.:_

_:It's not just our mages,:_ Kit added. _:We've had a message from Sunhame also. A cryptic message, to be sure, but that's what you get with Firecats. That message confirms the suppositions about this mage and their battery-thing.:_

_:So?_: Giff asked, although the sick feeling in his stomach indicated that he was almost certain what the next thing the Groveborn would say was going to be.

_:So, there is a meeting occurring at this moment, in which Halla and others are deciding just who to send against this mage.:_ Regin gave Giff a significant look.

_:But—_:

_:I am sorry, Giff.:_ Dadero did actually sound regretful. _:But we are certain that Michael is the only person who is going to be able to handle this battery with no ill-effects. Gillan is looking for him now to explain it to him.:_

_:Oh.:_ Giff tried not to look as miserable and as scared as he felt.

_:We're not sending you alone,_: Fedarrin assured him. _:Kristin and the other mages are assembling a party to go with you, you won't be without protection or aid.:_

For some reason, that didn't make Giff feel any better.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** Still not mine (apart from the stained and ever so slightly foxed bits).

**Notes:** Perhaps surprisingly, the circus happening in this chapter is due entirely to my common sense putting _in_ an appearance. By which I mean that I may have managed to jam a crow bar into the side of the plot and get it moving. Finally.

**Chapter Sixteen**

_**Plumage, variable – Dinner plans, unexpected**__** – Landscape, descriptive – Soiree, a strange definition thereof – Gung-ho, the movie kind**_

Somehow—and he really _wasn't_ sure how—Michael had ended up sitting most of the way underneath the right wing of a predator that could bite his head off entirely by accident, holding a feather longer than his arm steady with one hand, and a terracotta pot in the other.

He was fairly sure that there was glue in his hair. _If only Ralph could see me now._

"Tarii," the exasperated voice belonged to Trannen, who was concentrating on the shaft of the feather Michael was holding. "If you don't hold still, this is _never_ going to stay in place."

The warm, feathered and furred flank that Michael was braced against vibrated with a sigh.

"You take too long," Tarii protested. "A blind herrrmit could imp fasssterrr than you."

"Well, you just trot off and find a blind hermit, hmm?" Trannen wagged a glue-laden brush at the gryphon's beak, forcing Michael to duck his head and hope, yet again, that what Hirrn had assured him was merely good-natured wrangling would continue to be so.

"Blind herrrmitsss can imp, but they arrre no good forrr painting," Tarii said with immense dignity.

"You are the vainest creature that ever bumped into a mirror."

Tarii made a rude sound and shook her head; the movement scattered bits of dust and feather fragments into Michael's hair, where they promptly became embedded in the glue.

"There," Trannen said finally. The Healer set the brush down into the pot that Michael was holding and sat back on his heels to scrutinise his work. "That's the last one pinned and glued. You can let go now, Michael."

"Gooood. I wasss getting crrrampsss."

Michael did so thankfully, and then had to stifle a yelp as Tarii abruptly got to her feet. Landing with his face next to one of the gryphon's fore claws, Michael had it brought uncomfortably home to him just _how_ big and sharp Tarii's talons were. He scrambled back, trying to get out from underneath her, even though that seemed to be almost impossible as there appeared to be enough gryphon to fill a room double the size of the one they were in.

"Ouch!" Michael stopped suddenly as he managed to smack the back of his head into Tran's knee. The other man grunted, flashed Michael an understanding grin and held out a hand to pull him to his feet.

"Tarii, you _have_ remembered that you have to let them set?" Tran asked loudly, to be heard over the wind and noise of the gryphon trying to shake all her limbs.

Tarii paused and turned to stare at Tran and Michael, her pupils contracting as she focused on them. Abruptly, she sighed and sat down again, looking annoyed. "Yessss, yesss," she grumbled. "I rrrememberrr."

"One candlemark," Tran said firmly. "Which will also give me a chance to mix up the feather dyes. You look like an utter rag bag."

"Rrrag bag?" Tarii flattened her ear tufts and half spread her wings. "I look like a rrrag bag, Michael?"

Michael gulped and stared alternately at Tarii's imposing face, and at her wings, in which the repaired and replaced feathers, being faded in colour, stood out starkly against her otherwise pristine plumage and sharply dyed flight feathers.

_:Stop teasing the poor boy, you dreadful bird.:_ Hirrn stretched and shook her head. _:Honestly, the only person worse than you—_:

"Isss Goldleaf, which isss why we ended up with eacssh otherrr," Tarii finished. "I know, I know, tcah."

_:Quite.:_ Hirrn heaved her flanks in a sigh. Instead of saying something more, which Michael expected, the kyree cocked her head to one side as her eyes unfocused.

"Um, is she okay?" Michael asked uncertainly. How did you differentially diagnose a stroke in a magical wolf, anyway?

Tran paused in cleaning the glue brushes and glanced over his shoulder at his mentor. "She's fine."

"Are you sure?" Michael took a few steps towards Hirrn and experimentally waved one hand in front of her nose. No reaction.

"She'll bite that off," Tran observed, causing Michael to snatch back his hand and gain a horrified expression.

Tran dissolved into laughter. "Well, not really. She is fine, though, just in a Mindspeaking trance. Either the person she's talking too doesn't have that strong a Gift, or they're some distance away."

"Orrr a combination," Tarii helpfully added. "Which isss why we Sssilverrss have telesssonss."

Michael's magical dyheli memories informed him that a teleson of the sort that Tarii was referring to was the psionic equivalent of a walkie-talkie. It was beginning to occur to Michael that a good portion of what Yaul and the Companions had seen fit to stuff into his head wasn't, _actually_ what one would term as 'essential information.' He couldn't help but wonder if his first headache would have been less monumental if they hadn't been so eager to stuff him like the mental equivalent of a Christmas turkey.

_Speaking of headaches—_ Michael blinked and rolled his head experimentally from side to side. His headache had almost vanished; there was just a slight ache at the base of his skull.

_:Well.:_ Hirrn's Mindvoice had a foreboding overtone to it that Michael didn't like the sound of at all. It wasn't just his imagination, either: the kyree looked distinctly unimpressed, and both Tran and Tarii her fixing her with looks that carried equal parts curiosity and worry.

"Well?" he ventured, after a long moment in which Hirrn didn't say anything further.

The kyree snorted and shook herself from head to foot before looking back at Michael. _:The Queen's Own is looking for you, Michael. I have let him know that you are here; he will be along directly.:_

"Oh." Michael swallowed. "Did he say what it was about?"

"I'm sure it's nothing bad," Tran said hopefully, elbowing Tarii roughly in the side when she made a disparaging snort and made to speak.

"Hm," Michael grunted, flicking his eyes from the Healer and gryphon, to Hirrn, who now seemed to be doing a fine example of a granite statue with an utterly inscrutable expression. His headache suddenly seemed worse.

There was a polite, but insistent knock on the door between Hirrn's suite and the corridor. This was immediately followed (Michael presumed, at Hirrn's invitation, although he didn't hear anything) by the door opening to reveal Herald Gillan, the Queen's Own.

"Ah, Michael," Gillan said in a tone of voice that only managed joviality as a thin veneer over coolness. "We've been searching high and low for you."

"I've been here the whole morning," Michael muttered. In addition to the cold lump that being near most of the figures of authority in Haven elicited in his stomach, he was fighting the fact that the elderly Herald made him feel like a rebellious five year old.

_:I presume that you're going to steal him away, then?_:

"You are most correct, Healer Hirrn." Gillan produced a polite little smile and gestured for Michael to leave the room. "The Privy Council have come to some decisions, and they involve young Michael here rather intimately."

_:Quite.:_ Hirrn, Michael noticed, had perfected the art of sounding simultaneously perfectly polite and deeply disbelieving. _:Michael, we will of course be expecting you back here at sunset for the party.:_

"Party?" Gillan asked sceptically, before Michael could do more than shoot an utterly bewildered look at Hirrn.

"Of courrrsse," Tarii jumped into the conversation. "A ssmall dinnerr gatherrring. I am orrrganissing; Hirrrrn hasss grrascefully volunteerred herrr rrroomss. Isss that not rrright, Michael?"

"Um, yes?" Michael offered weakly, wondering just what the two non-humans were playing at. After all; as much as Gillan seemed to dislike his very presence in Valdemar, the man was the Queen's Own and Michael had the requisite talking white horse.

"I see," Gillan said calmly. "Well, we shall certainly be done with him by then."

That didn't fill Michael with confidence, and he followed the older man out into the corridor with trepidation.

*****

Dupe had stayed curled up under the thorn bush for the entire night; falling into a restless sleep as the moon had ghosted high in the cold sky.

Now, it was morning and early enough that the sun was only gilding the tops of the mountains. The valleys and crevasses that Dupe was picking her slow way along were still pooled deep in shadow; wisps of mist curling around lichen-covered rocks and the occasional patch of scrub grass.

If there had been anything independent left of Dupe, she would have climbed up into the daylight, or followed the nonsense-paths that the mist wound about her.

Instead, being as Dupe was hollow—an almost-empty thing for her Mistress to use as she willed—the geas-bound woman shambled towards the one valley that seemed to resist the rising sun, keeping a cloak of inky shadow about itself and all that it contained.

*****

Giff wasn't entirely sure _how_ he'd managed to extract himself from the meeting of Very Important Companions, but he had. The young stallion was now loping across the Field, heading straight for Healer's Collegium. Maybe, if he was lucky, Gillan hadn't found Michael yet.

_And then? What exactly are you planning to do, stupid horse? _Giff berated himself. _Kidnap Michael away from _Haven_ as well?_

A pair of young Healer trainees, their worn robes liberally covered with soil squeaked and sprang back into the herb beds they'd just been weeding as Giff clattered past them. Usually, Giff would have stopped to apologise (well, look pretty) for being so discourteous. Or at least felt some guilt. As it was, between the way that every moment since Choosing Michael had felt like trying to walk over hot coals scattered from a variety of directions, and the fact that They (an amorphous amalgam of the Circle, Privy Council and anyone else Giff could think of) were determined to send the pair of them off to face down the gods only _knew_ what—

Giff was beginning to understand the stories of older Companions, who had been caught up trouble on Circuit and ended up separated from their Chosen. The story tellers had dwelled extensively on the worry and unsettled feeling of a forced separation and—well. Giff felt as if an entire swarm of flying insects had taken up reside in his stomach.

_:Michael?_: Giff deflated as he stuck his head through the open window to Michael's room and found it deserted.

_Where is he?_ Giff fretted, stepping nervously from side to side, ignoring the sharp scent of the lemon balm he was crushing under his hooves. In lieu of any better ideas, Giff started to circle the building. Maybe he'd come up lucky and find Michael in one of the gardens. Even though the young man seemed to be coming somewhat to terms with Valdemar, he still avoided people whenever he could, and had made no real friends with anyone except Hirrn and Trannen.

_:Hirrn!_: Giff hadn't realised that he'd actually yelped that in Mindspeech until he Felt the kyree in his mind.

_:I presume that you have some reason for trying to deafen me?_:

_:Michael; please tell me he's with you.:_

The sensation of a sigh. _:He was, until the Queen's Own collected him about a quarter mark ago.:_

_:Oh, no—:_

_:Surely I'm not hearing a Companion doubt a Herald?_:

_:No! Of course not! It's just…_: Giff trailed off wretchedly, unable to form his thoughts into a coherent thread of Mindspeech.

_:Indeed. Well, if it's any comfort, Gillan was taking him over to the Palace. I presume that you know why?_:

_:Yes, but I can't—_:

_:Pish.:_ Hirrn's snort echoed in Giff's head, making him go cross-eyed for a moment. _:I imagine that we mere Outlanders are going to be told all about it in the Council meeting that we have just been summoned to.:_

_:Uh, we?_:

_:Myself and that bloodthirsty __gryphonic niece of mine. At least the Council seem to be showing some common sense in picking people for this little soiree to the south.:_

_:I didn't say anything!_: Giff said with alarm. Hirrn seemed to know an awful lot more than she should. Giff's tattered attention meant that his shields really weren't what they should be and kyree—Giff wasn't entirely sure on the moral specifics that kyree placed on mental privacy.

_:Don't be ridiculous,_: Hirrn reprimanded him. _:I _have_ taken Healer's Oaths, as well as having slightly more moral compass than a dead fish. Besides, when the one Healer with both battle and scout experience—and four feet and the stamina to match—_and_ the one gryphon Silver are called to a privy meeting mere days after magical constructs have begun massacring Alliance folk on the southern border? You'd have to be a prize plum not to realise what was in the offing.:_

_:Oh.:_ Giff stopped suddenly in the middle of a gravel path and flattened his ears.

_:Oh, indeed. Tarii is practically salivating at the chance to fly in combat conditions again.:_

Giff was about to add more to his 'oh', but Hirrn ran right over the top of him: no mean feat in Mindspeech.

_:Speaking of prize plums, if I were you, then I would park myself firmly in front of Mage's Collegium. No one will be going _anywhere_ without stealing at least half a dozen of that lot and inducing the rest to build a Gate to fling us all to the back of beyond.:_

_:That—thank you.:_ Giff cut off the contact with Hirrn and whirled himself around so that he could take the short-cut past the Healer's extensive green houses to get to Mage's Collegium. If he was lucky, maybe he'd even manage to sneak inside the building to find Michael.

*****

"You understand, of course, why we are asking this of you Michael?"

Michael nodded nervously at the Queen. Both of his hands were clutching at the stool he was sitting on hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Mainly. This was because the world felt awfully like it was tipping sideways. _That_ was because the _Queen_ was actually asking _him _for help. Given Gillan's abrupt manner, Michael had been fully expecting some kind of marching orders, probably along the lines of 'go away and never darken our door with your freakish nature. And you can leave our magical horse right here, thank you very much.' Instead—

"And that it is entirely voluntary on your part?" Halla gave him a look that was mostly calm, but had an overlay of worry. "I am not in the habit of ordering younglings off into the wilderness to battle the forces of darkness. The scout group that we are sending are certainly going to be Gifted enough to deal with the… problem." The _I hope_ slotted silently onto the end of that sentence.

"But you think that I'm the only one who can handle the battery without harm?" Michael was actually surprised at how steady his voice was as he looked around at the small group of people in the room with him. In addition to Halla and Gillan, there were five or six other Heralds and a scattering of Adept mages.

_:I am afraid so, Michael.:_ Rhiska rocked back on her haunches and flicked one ear. _:Once we have disposed of the mage, handling this 'battery' in order to figure out how to banish it—or even transporting it back to Haven—would be difficult in the extreme without you.:_

"Well, I guess I'm going to the southern border, then?" A part of Michael was convinced that he should be freaking out over this all—over ending up in some crack pot fantasy land and then, true to the B-movie plot lines of every 80's genre film _ever_, turning out to be the Unexpected Hero—but. There was an even larger part of him that was insisting that this was the right thing to be doing, and that was giving Michael a strange feeling that seemed to be an admixture of fear, anticipation and satisfaction.

It was probably all Giff's fault.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: ** Still not mine. Woecakes.

**Notes: **Update, yay?

**Chapter Seventeen**

_**Conversations are had – History like salt – Clothing (optional) – Once more into the breach!**_

Although the position of Queen's Own Herald wasn't exactly a low-stress career, Gillan nevertheless enjoyed it. Mostly. There were days—usually involving pranks perpetrated at, by or _to_ any of the trainees of the four Collegia—when he wished devoutly for a more normal life. One where the most complicated thing he was likely to have to face for long periods of time was taking cover in a Waystation while out on Circuit in the depths of winter, or sorting out the creative book keeping of local merchants, or, frequently, determining just _who_ owned the brown and white cow.

Still: that wasn't his life, and it hadn't been for a very long time. Gillan gave himself a moment to sigh and brush away old regrets before focusing on his surroundings.

"You're quite sure?"

Herald-Mage Kira, the Dean of the Mage's Collegium, nodded and huffed out a sigh of her own. "No-one is willing to cut the party numbers down at all and, to be quite frank, I'd be standing right behind whoever was protesting; everyone in the group is going to be needed."

"Except for the fact that we're one mount short."

"Yes."

"Yaul is positive that no more of the dyheli would volunteer?"

"It's not that simple."

Gillan rubbed at his face with one hand and cast his eyes up to the slightly cobwebby ceiling beams in his office. "Of course it's not."

Kira made a sound that could equally have been a snort of amusement or exasperation. "The dyheli that are acting as mounts are also the ones with some experience with hunting change-creatures and, well, everyone else either has a Companion or four feet of their own. Except for Shadowflame."

Gillan scowled at the ceiling, then at the cluttered piles of books and papers that Dadero claimed concealed Gillan's desk. "It would be her."

"She's one of the most accomplished Adept Mages in Haven," Kira pointed out relentlessly. "And she's got years of experience of dealing with dark magic."

"She's also got a temper you could shave rocks with," Gillan pointed out, ignoring the amused, _:And that's on a good day.:_ that Dadero saw fit to insert. "And trying to put her dyheli-back for longer than a few steps is a sure recipe for someone to lose something vital."

A sigh of agreement from Kira. "Her leg does complicate matters. Unfortunately, Tarii's carry-basket was ruined by—well." Kira waved her hands.

Gillan could entirely understand her inability to find the words to describe the sheer volume of mess that could be perpetrated by a pack of Blues with a desire for experimentation and an inability to _not_ spill large barrels of acid all over the store room they were using as a laboratory. Thankfully, none of them had been seriously injured, but Gillan was entirely sure that the younglings in question had wished to be unconscious in the House of Healing when Tarii had found out what had happened and _had words_ to say. At length, and with resort to volumes the like of which Gillan hadn't thought possible to be the product of a single creature. The gryphon, he'd found out later, had been heard clear over the far side of the Palace.

_:I'm fairly sure that they heard her down in the Flower Market. Gryphons certainly have an impressive lung capacity.:_

_:Dadero,_: Gillan admonished wearily. _:This is no time for frivolity.:_

_:My, my, we certainly are negative today. If you and Kira would come out to the Field, I believe that we have a solution for you.:_

From Kira's slightly vacant expression, Gillan gathered that her Fedarrin was giving her similar instructions. She blinked and produced a wry smile. "Looks like we're being given our marching orders."

"I suppose that we'd better go and see what they want," Gillan agreed. "I hope it won't take long, Halla and I have the full Council to placate at noon." The elder Herald stepped around the younger mage and pulled his office door open, gesturing for her to walk through it first. Once they were walking down the corridor, taking the quickest route to Companion's Field, Kira cast a quizzical look in Gillan's direction.

"What particular cat are those stuffy old pigeons getting into a flap about now?"

"Haldebor's just about convinced the rest of the southern nobles that the Lord Marshall should be leading a general mobilisation down to the Comb."

"You can't be serious." Kira looked appalled. "Why hasn't someone shut that man up in a room where he can't cause damage to anyone except for himself? Doesn't he realise what parking the army on Rethwellan's doorstep would do to the Alliance?"

"The problem is that he isn't thinking, at least not clearly." Gillan pursed his lips and waited until a gaggle of chattering Bardic and Healer trainees had clattered past them before continuing. "His duchy is snug up against the border, right where this...whatever it is...is happening. He doesn't want an evil mage targeting his people."

"His pocket, more like," Kira muttered darkly, before holding up one hand. "I know, I know. That's just my opinion."

"Quite." Gillan stepped through the exterior door that Kira pulled open. "Regardless of the cause, Halla still has to untangle the knots that the Council is determined to tie itself in, and it has to be done before someone does something daft."

"Like put together a ragtag group of mages and Heralds and fling them in the direction of the Comb?" Kira asked in a too-innocent tone.

Gillan favoured her with a look before setting his sights on the fence line of the Field, which lay a short distance away, on the far side of an ornamental garden. Quickly, he and the Dean crunched their way along the neatly gravelled path way and passed through the overly ornamental gateway that punctured the fence. They had only made it a short distance into the Field before Dadero and Fedarrin appeared from the cover of a small stand of birch trees and cantered towards them.

Gillan accepted Dadero's affectionate nose nudge to his shoulder and ran his fingers through the Companion's mane.

"So what's the unspeakably brilliant plan that you pair have concocted?" Kira asked. "Or, rather; who have you conned into carting Shadowflame around? I can't think of any of the Unbonded Companions who've been in enough trouble to warrant _that_ much of a punishment."

Dadero and Fedarrin both snorted.

_:We have not conned anyone into anything,_: Dadero informed Gillan. _:Although Kira is right about our idea. A Companion is the only possible mount that can both keep up with the rest of the party _and_ bear Shadowflame with the minimum of discomfort for all involved.:_

Given Kira's expression, Gillan was willing to bet that her own Companion's summation was rather pithier.

"Well, who did you have in mind?" Gillan asked. "I can only think of five Unbonded Companions who are old enough and strong enough to bear a rider under adverse conditions, and I thought that you had mentioned that all of them were showing signs of their Call?"

_:That is true,_: Dadero sighed. _:However, there is little alternative.:_

Kira glanced back and forth as Fedarrin relayed Dadero's words to her. Her expression curled into a faint frown. "But what if whoever it is starts to feel their Call? They'll be stranded in the back of beyond—unless their Chosen is down in the south already?"

_:No one has any definite idea of a direction as of yet, although Larin is having glimpses of the area around Lake Evendim.:_

Fedarrin nodded his head in agreement.

Gillan sighed. "It hardly seems fair to deprive a potential Chosen of their Companion in this way—"

_:I will go.:_

Gillan started violently at the unexpected Mindvoice, aware that both Kira and the two Companions were similarly surprised, although not to the extent that he was. _That voice_—it was one that he still dreamed about, but hadn't heard for over three and a half decades. He whirled around and found himself staring at the dusty Companion who was standing a short distance away from them, carefully not focusing her gaze on anyone in particular.

_:Datti?_: Dadero asked uneasily. _:Are you sure?_:

_:I will go,_: the mare repeated. _:I am more than capable of both keeping up with dyheli and dealing with the verbal battle that counts as conversation with Adept Shadowflame.:_

"Datti, I—" Gillan wasn't even sure what he was going to say: Dadero was his Companion, had _always_ really been his Companion, but Datti—she'd been there first. She'd been the one to find him and nurture him and _be_ with him for sixteen years and now—she hated him.

_:I will go.:_ Datti half closed her eyes and drew her head up high. _:The possibility of a Call will not, after all, be an issue for me.:_

Gillan gulped and instinctively leaned into Dadero's comforting weight, even though part of him wanted to walk forwards and hug Datti like they were still friends. Out of the corner of one eye, Gillan noticed that Fedarrin had edged himself so that he was ever-so-slightly in between his Chosen and the other Companion. Datti seemed to elicit pretty much the same ice-water-down-spine in all of the few people that she interacted with.

_:If you are sure.:_ Dadero tilted his head slightly to one side.

Datti didn't bow her head at all. If anything, for the first time, she actually fixed her attention on one particular thing, matching Dadero stare for stare.

_:Of course I am sure, Groveborn. The mages are planning to build the Gate tomorrow morning at three marks past dawn, yes? Inform Adept Shadowflame that I will arrive at the ekele two marks prior to that, although I do not expected that she will pack a great amount.:_ Without waiting for a reply, Datti turned sharply on her heels and loped off into the depths of the Field, leaving Gillan and Kira to stare wordlessly at each other.

-----

_:I do have to carry all this, remember?_:

Michael glanced up from the mess of clothes and saddlebags that was taking up most of his bed. Giff had hung his head through the open window and was watching him with an expression of trepidation.

_:And you, of course. I mean, I get that you probably want things stacked up around you to keep you secure, but—_:

"Are you implying that I can't ride?" Despite the accusatory tone, there was no real heat in Michael's voice. There couldn't be. It was true: there were probably mentally retarded items of fruit that were better at horsemanship than he was.

_:He's not implying anything, the bruises that both of your are covered in tell their tale perfectly adequately. Oh, this will absolutely not do.: _Michael found himself nudged out the way as Hirrn performed her usual trick of marching into any given room and taking it over. The kyree began to paw through his belongings as Michael looked on helplessly.

"Look, it's not like I even used to go camping as a kid. My grandparents didn't own a farm, my family didn't rent a cabin out in the sticks for summer. I'm used to _cities_."

_:The mages are Gating us right to the border, it's not like we're going on a Circuit.:_ Giff flattened his ears as Michael glared at him.

"Remind me of the B-movie mode of transportation again, why don't you."

_:Now, now, boys.:_ Hirrn produced the kind of yawning growl that Michael was learning passed for a tutting sound. _:Michael, this is nothing short of a disaster. I want you to sort everything into piles and empty the bags. I'm going to get Goldleaf to pack for you. If anyone other than a Circuit Herald knows how to pack light, it's a Silver partnered with a gryphon.:_

Giff shuddered. _:Those carry-basket things give me the heebie-jeebies,_: he said. _:I'm sure that nothing without wings is meant to go that high up.:_

"Remind me never to explain airplanes to you."

_:Tarii is not taking her basket, it is still being repaired. One of the dyheli has kindly volunteered to carry both her and my supplies, such as they are.:_

"You have supplies?" Michael asked curiously, clearing a small patch of bed so that he could sit down.

_:Primarily Healing and first aid. Tarii has some grooming equipment, and extra fighting gear. Just in case something breaks, she says. Bloodthirsty creature.:_ Hirrn shook her head. _:You'll see what I mean tomorrow.:_

Michael noticed that Giff was rolling his eyes. "How many people are going?" he asked, before Hirrn could also notice.

_:You, me, Tarii, Goldleaf, one of the k'Verei mages, two Herald-Mages, the Companions and four dyheli.:_ Hirrn paused for a moment. _:And Shadowflame.:_

_:Oh, great.:_ Giff's ears flattened against his skull. _:What's the plan? To stand well back and let her beat the monsters unconscious with her stick?_:

Michael stifled a snort of laughter, even if an impression of the Tayledras Adept, dressed like a ren-faire warrior reject, flailing around with her walking stick flashed into the front of his mind. Giff, Michael was beginning to discover (now that their relationship had progressed beyond arguments and injury), had a wicked sense of humour.

_:As I am sure that you are aware, Shadowflame is one of the most powerful and experienced Adept mages in the Alliance countries.: _Hirrn fixed Giff with a look. _:And she would have no compunction about rapping _you_ over your overly smart nose, either.:_

Giff deflated, and Michael felt moved to defend him. "Hey, now. I thought that I was the only one allowed to bruise Giff's nose?" As he spoke, Michael scooted backwards across the bed, so that he was sitting underneath the window, and hitched one shoulder up to bump Giff under the chin.

_:Abusive relationships are unhealthy,_: Giff said, but a faintly pleased feeling accompanied his words, and he lowered his head so that he and Michael were touching. Michael let one hand steal upwards so that he could scratch at the side of Giff's neck, eliciting a sigh of contentment.

_:Hmmm.:_ Hirrn produced an inscrutable look before shaking herself all over. _:Michael, I am going to check on the Healing supplies and to find Goldleaf to help you with packing. Giff, I will see you outside Mage's Collegium tomorrow.:_

_:Three marks after dawn, I remember.:_

If Hirrn had anything more to say to the Companion, Michael certainly didn't hear it, but the way that Giff twitched, nose bumping his cheek, and Hirrn wrinkled her nose just before disappearing out of the door to the corridor was certainly suspicious.

After a moment of leaning back against the wall, vaguely aware of both the sound of his and Giff's breathing, and the fact that the sharp thing jabbing him the thigh was probably a belt buckle, Michael thought of a question he'd not had a chance to ask earlier. "Hey."

_:Yes?_:

"Everyone—I mean, the human everyone—who's coming is going to have to ride, yes?"

_:Yes. On Companions or dyheli; they can almost keep up with us. One of them will be acting as a kind of pack carrier and will have Hirrn's supplies and probably a carry pad for her if we really need some speed. Kyree are not particularly good at high-speed endurance.:_

"So...Shadowflame's going to have to ride a dyheli, then? I mean, I know I'm not one of your fancy Healers, but I can see that she's got some serious muscle damage to that leg of hers. Trying to ride something as bony as a dyheli is going to be painful."

Michael's shirt ruffled as Giff whuffed out a breath. _:Not just bony; dyheli don't as much gallop as, well, bound. Oh dear. Shadowflame will not enjoy that in the slightest.:_

"D'you think anyone's thought of this?" Michael asked. "Or told her?"

_:Are you volunteering?_:

"God, no!" Michael shuddered and poked Giff in the side of the neck with one finger. "I don't have a death wish or the desire for a walking stick related concussion. I wonder who they'll get to tell her."

_:Probably Tarii. She has the advantage of being a predator three times the size of Shadowflame.:_ Giff paused for a moment, considering. _:Plus, she can fly away, and even though Ayren is big, he's not stupid enough to go beak to beak with a gryphon.:_

"Ayren?" Michael twisted his head sideways to look at Giff.

_:Her bondbird. He's an eagle and—well. Let's just say that the pair of them are matched for temperament.:_

Michael groaned and closed his eyes. "You know, I'm having serious second thoughts about this little trip."

_:Me too, Chosen. Me too.:_

-----

Out of the entire group assembled in front of Mage's Collegium Datti, Giff noticed, was the only one who wasn't being jostled around.

Of course, noticing the distinct patch of clear space around the mare immediately led Giff on to wondering just _why_ Datti was there. The Companion was forced to side-step to the left to avoid being trampled by Tarii, who strode past him, wings mantling, as she argued loudly in Kaled'a'in with Goldleaf. The slightly different vantage point revealed the next startling thing about Datti: although, like him, she wasn't wearing a hackamore, those darker patches on her back weren't some strange shadows caused by the angle of the sun and the riotous climbing vines that adorned the front of the Collegium. They were a saddle and packs.

"Hey," Michael whispered as he slipped up to huddle next to Giff's neck. Giff raised his head up so that his Chosen could take advantage of the meagre shelter, and winced slightly as one of the hertasi decided—for about the seventh time—that the packs attached to his saddle needed rearranging.

"Is that Datti? What's she doing here?"

_:It appears that she's going with us?_: Giff blew out a confused sigh. _:I'm not entirely sure.:_

Any further speculation was cut short by the stamp-scrape arrival of Shadowflame, who limped up to Datti, blithely ignoring any and all people in the way, on the apparent basis that _they_ would make way for _her_. Which they did; Shadowflame's walking stick was, after all, legendary. The Tayledras mage fixed Datti's saddle with a sour look.

"Well, isn't that just going to be fun to get in and out of. Could you be any taller?"

_:I'll ride you, then.:_

Giff tensed and wondered who'd chase after him if he ran away. An argument between two of the foulest tempered people in Haven was not something that he even wanted to observe from a distance.

Shadowflame's sharp bark of laughter was therefore a total shock, and Giff was pleased to note that he wasn't the only one to jump.

"Well, at least you're not going to shove the sanctimonious white horse act down my throat."

_:And at least you're not going to shove the tree-hugging hippy-dippy lunatic act down _my_ throat. Thank Havens for small mercies.:_

Shadowflame laughed again and moved off to harangue two hertasi who were fussing around after the mages who would be Gating them down to the border.

"So," Michael stepped sideways so that Giff could see him gesturing at the bustle. "Who's, um, going with us?"

_:Oh, ah, Shadowflame and Datti—_:

"Well, duh."

_:—um. Herald-Mages Yaska and Venni. They are the ones in Whites, over by the Gate terminus. Their Companions are Velaryn and Kit. The Tayledras lady with them—the one in green with the white bird on her shoulder—that's Adept Rainfox k'Verei. I don't know what her bird is called.:_

"What about Shadowflame's bird, Ayren, wasn't it?"

Giff blew out a breath, ruffling Michael's hair and used his nose to point in the direction of the roof of the main Collegium building. _:He's probably up there somewhere. He doesn't like crowds of people and—well—he's _big_. Even if her leg was well, Shadowflame would not be able to walk around with him perched on her shoulder, like most of the other Tayledras do.:_

"Huh."

Not sure what _that _meant, Giff decided to finish naming their party. _:The dyheli are called Hath, Dinda, Melli and Jadin. Melli is the white one—she's a mage Channel, so I guess she'll be paired up with Rainfox. I'm just thankful that Yaul isn't coming. Having him and Hirrn in close proximity to each other would be scary.:_

"What, like Datti and Shadowflame?" Michael snuffed out something that might have been a laugh. "They looked like _they_ were going to get on with each other."

_:Chosen, I know for a fact that you have witnessed what Hirrn and Yaul are like with each other. That is them being _civil_, under _non-stressful_ conditions. Tarii could probably tell you a solid month's worth of horror stories about what happens if either of them is in a truly bad mood.:_ Giff shuddered all over. _:It doesn't bear thinking about.:_ He was irrationally pleased when Michael looped one arm over his neck.

Movement at the edge of his vision made Giff turn his head. A smallish party of mixed people and Companion was approaching them. As they got closer, Giff could see they were being led by the Queen, Gillan—followed by Dadero—on one side and her Companion on the other.

_:Um,_: Giff managed in open Mindspeech, drawing the attention of Kit and Velaryn, and subsequently everyone else outside of the approaching group.

The Queen continued forwards until she was standing a short distance from them. Giff resisted the urge to sidle behind Michael as Halla's Companion, Regin, gave him an unreadable look.

"We have come to wish you well," Halla said gravely, indicating the people gathered behind her. Giff could identify the members of the Privy Council, as well as the Deans of Heraldic and Bardic Collegia. There were probably more, but he didn't want to stare and risk getting himself noticed.

"Most of you probably know that I'm not one for big speeches," Halla continued. "And a lofty speech would not be appropriate for the circumstances. Just know that our thoughts and wishes are with you all, and that we plan on welcoming you _all_ back to Haven when this is over."

The Queen looked around, making sure that she caught and held the gaze of every single member of the party. Feeling somewhat unsteady (although how much of that was originating from Michael, he really couldn't tell) Giff lowered his head respectfully.

"We are ready to cast the Gate." One of the flamboyantly dressed Tayledras mage-teachers, who Giff knew by sight only, gestured towards the white marble archway that was set in a circle of gravel in front of the Collegium.

"Very well," Venni said as she strode forwards. "Mount up. Everybody be ready to go as soon as the Gate is stable, understand?"

Giff firmed his stance as Michael clumsily gained the saddle. Datti, he noticed out of the corner of one eye, had sidled over to a low, sloped, wall, so that Shadowflame could use it as a mounting block.

Giff shifted his weight nervously as the group arranged themselves into the agreed crossing order: Tarii and Hirrn first, followed by Rainfox, Goldleaf and the two Herald-Mages, and then finally himself and the dyheli.

The air began to hum with power, making Giff squint as the Tayledras mage in front of the Gate raised his hands high. As he sliced them down sharply, the Gate flashed into existence.

"Go!" Venni shouted.

Giff caught a brief glimpse of greenery and bright white before Tarii was plunging through the opening, wings half spread. Gritting his teeth, aware that Michael was clinging onto his mane for all that he was worth, Giff put his head down and plunged forwards into the unknown.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** Only my toys, not my sandbox. Promise to rake it over smooth when I've finished playing.

**Notes: **Maaan, I don't even _know._

**Chapter Eighteen**

There was something strange in the air.

Enyivika drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the scarred wooden surface of the table that she was sitting at as she watched Dupe sidle out of the room, her arms loaded down with dirty crockery. Using her special focus to make Darlings always left the Bloodpath Adept feeling hollow, and she had no shame about gorging herself on as much food as could be provided.

The fruits of her labours were scattered about the keep; some of the smaller ones were here, in the main hall, fawning around in the hope of a crumb or a crust. The rest were kennelled outside, too large and wild for Enyivika to be sure that the geas she had laid on them would be strong enough to contain their blood lust and appetite. She would have to work some more on the containment spells once she had regained her strength, but still: she was well pleased with the fruits of her labours. And yet—

There was something strange in the air.

"Rabbit!"

The old Darling picked its way cautiously around the edge of the hall, heading towards her while trying to keep as much distance as possible between itself and the menacing jaws and claws of the new Darlings. It was only Rabbit's perceived place as her favourite that kept the thing alive and out of the teeth of her bloodthirsty new children, something that Enyivika noted with pleasure. Love and devotion were for the weak and the pathetic: much better to have abject fear and utter obedience.

_**Mistress—**_ Rabbit whined nervously, prostrating itself before the table, pressing its head as low down as it could, and still keep its eyes fixed on her.

"You will go and scout the hills. I sense hints of strange magic, and I would know what is causing it. Do not attack what you find, and do _not_ let yourself be discovered." Enyivika allowed a cold smile to curl her lips, pleased to note the way that Rabbit's ears pressed back against its head and it whimpered low in its throat. "Or there will be, as I am sure that you are aware, consequences."

Enyivika allowed her eyes to flicker right, to the mantle area over the extravagant fireplace, and to the newly-tanned hides that were hung over it. Rabbit followed her gaze and whimpered again. Her new children also shifted about, a variety of fearful and appeasing vocalisations rustling amongst them.

"After all, you, _dear_ Rabbit, are the last of my original children, and we wouldn't want anything...unfortunate...to happen to you, would we?"

_**No—no, Mistress—**_

"Good. Be off with you." Enyivika waved one hand negligently in the air, pleased at the speed with which Rabbit scuttled out of the hall to do her bidding. Quite apart from the power that she had managed to retrieve, it appeared that Gulp and Rag had provided a rare and profound object lesson.

* * *

"That is really, really freaky." Michael leaned in against Giff's side and watched as Tarii stalked purposefully past them, furling her wings in the wake of the landing she'd just made in the centre of the clearing they were setting up camp in for the night.

_:Hmm?_: Giff blinked and looked confused. _:What do you mean?_:

"I mean that there's a nice, peaceful forest clearing, nothing to see except the wildlife and then—bang—a predator the size of a _barn_ drops out of the sky and is _there_ without even a rustle or an eye blink.

"I am not the sssize of a barrrrn." Tarii twisted around, ignoring Goldleaf, who was trying to check her wings. Michael gulped; despite the fact that her voice sounded amused, he was still utterly rubbish at reading non-human facial expressions.

"A little longer in Haven, I think you would have been. Much with the eating, you were, and not so much with the exercising," Goldleaf said severely, rapping Tarii's beak with a finger. "Stop _looking_ at Michael."

Michael could feel Giff's side shaking with suppressed laughter as the gryphon's feathers fluffed up and she gained an expression that even Michael could read as 'offended'.

"I? _I_ eat too mucssh? Tcah! I do not have the cakesss and the sssweetmeatss and the dessserrtss that would give any honessst crrreaturre ssugarr ssicknesss."

"Since honest you are not, little danger you were in," Goldleaf shot back. "Now, come and report to the mages what you've seen."

Tarii voiced another snort, but willingly followed after Goldleaf, towards the campfire and the people gathered around it. Michael let out a breath that he wasn't even aware that he'd been holding. Friendly teasing of gryphons was obviously something that he needed further lessons from Trannen and Hirrn about.

_:We should go over there and listen.:_

"What for?" Michael shrugged one shoulder uncomfortably. "I'm just the liability until they all deal with the...whatever...and I have to pick up the battery. I mean: that's _all_ I have to do."

_:It would still be nice to know what is happening.:_ Michael could feel Giff giving him a disapproving look. _:More than that, it's sensible to know what we're going to be trotting into.:_

"Alright, alright." Michael sighed and edged closer to the fire, aided by nudging from Giff. He was aware that the other Companions and the dyheli, arranged in a loose half-circle behind the seated humans, were staring at him. Once at the edge of the circle, Michael sank to the ground and settled himself next to Hirrn, who gave him a sideways look.

"There were signs of occupation?" Venni was saying, attention divided between Tarii and a map that was spread out on the ground in front of herself and Rainfox.

"Yesss," Tarri said firmly. "Although painsss had been taken to make the keep appearrr abandoned sstill, there were sssignss of rrepairr to the rrroof, and movement arrround ssome of the outbuildingsss."

"Hm." Venni frowned down at the map as Rainfox took up the thread of questioning.

"A keep? How large?"

Tarii spread both of her foreclaws wide and flipped her wings. "Yesss, a keep. It looked sstrrange, asss if it had been made frrrom an existing building." Tarri gave Hirrn a significant look. "Like sssome of the cliff top buildingsss in White Grrryphon."

"Oh?" Rainfox turned her attention to the kyree, who shifted position, brushing briefly against Michael's arm.

_:Although a large part of the city is now on the cliff tops, when it was first built most people lived in the Old City; in the cliffs. The first buildings on the cliff top were exposed and took a lot of battering. A few years ago, some clever mages worked out a way to remake the old buildings, using a mixture of the original and new materials. It was very impressive.:_

"And noisssy," Tarii added. "My point isss that I believe that thisss blood mage isss lairred up in there. The keep isss about five marrrkss away by foot, in a small ssside valley. Although the building itssself isss intact, the outerrr defenssess look to be minimal. I am morrre concerrrned with what wasss doing the moving."

_:I wonder what the building used to be?_:

Michael twisted around as Giff leaned his head over his shoulder. He was about to ask how _he _was supposed to know about some old building when he realised that Giff was actually looking at Venni's Companion.

"Actually—that's a good point." Venni raised her eyebrows.

Yaska put down the wooden spoon he had been using to stir the pot of stew set up over the fire and leaned over the map. "Is the side valley littered with red rocks?" he asked Tarii. At her nod of affirmation, he grunted and pointed at a particular bit of the map. "Roald's hunting lodge."

Venni winced. "Yes, Kit, clearly nothing is sacred."

"Roald's hunting lodge?" Michael whispered to Giff, aware that the Companion had also tensed up and was radiating disapproval.

_:Roald was King about five hundred years ago. When his parents were still on the throne, he kept a lodge out here in the Comb as somewhere that he could use to escape from the pressure of being an only child and the Heir.:_

"I thought monarchs were supposed to have lots of kids?"

Giff let out his breath slowly and glanced sideways at Michael. _:When Arden and Leesa—Roald's parents—came to the throne, there were some tensions. They were the first full co-consorts that Valdemar had ever had and there were a lot of tensions amongst the Court and the Councils. An attempt was made on Leesa's life and the result of it was that she was made barren. It took five years of working with the best Healers in Haven for her and Arden to conceive.:_

Giff broke off suddenly and gave Kit and embarrassed look. _:I can tell you about this later,_: he said. _:We have more important things to do right now.:_

"Right," Michael mumbled, slouching over. "Let me guess, I get to sit here?" And now the disapproving looks were directed at him. Brilliant. Michael scowled at his own hands, aware that Giff was giving off a distinct aura of embarrassment.

_:We can set up a more permanent camp,_: the Companion said. _:After all, Michael's helped a few times, and I can, um, help him if he gets stuck.:_

"Hmm." Shadowflame raised one ice white eyebrow and gave Michael a long look that had him flushing red rather than getting irritated at Giff for trying to organise his life again.

"Very well." Venni nodded decisively. "The mages and I will trance and try and get a magical fix on this blood mage."

_:Tarii, the dyheli and I will scout in a more physical sense,_: Hirrn put in, pulling herself into a fluid looking stretch.

"And me," Goldleaf reminded her.

_:The birds and I should also join in.:_ Michael started at Datti's gravelly Mindvoice; the mare had tended towards being a silent presence throughout the trip so far. _:It is not, after all, as if we are needed to be mage anchors or camp helpers.:_

"Ayren can pester you, then." Shadowflame looked between her mount and her bird. Datti rippled her hide in a shrug and began to pick her way out of the clearing.

_:We haven't got until Midwinter.:_

"Quite." Venni shook her head, eyes on the path Datti had taken. "Let's get to our business."

* * *

The afternoon sun had finally heated the stone of the mountains enough that the thin air was carrying some decent thermals. Tarii blinked one eye, then the other and adjusted her wing span so that she slid smoothly from the top of one dwindling column of warm air to the heart of another.

Urtho—the blessed father of her kind—had seen fit to give gryphons exceptional vision, and Tarii saw no need to neglect such a bounty. Having such visual acuity meant that she could effectively scout from an altitude that meant that any observer spotting her silhouette would most likely assume that she was a much smaller bird lower down. Speaking of which—Ayren and Rainfox's bird were visible to her left and far right respectively, and the gryphon took a moment to alter her course so that they did not resemble anything like a deliberate scouting effort. Tarii was not a fan of being shot at.

_:Attractive place.:_

Years of being partnered with Goldleaf meant that Tarii merely directed a mental snort in the human's direction and concentrated on holding her glide position.

_:I'm being serious; the scenery around here is pretty spectacular. It's just a shame about the neighbours.:_

_:Neighbours who will eat you if they find you,_: Tarii felt compelled to point out.

_:I'm Kaled'a'in,_: Goldleaf said impudently. _:and I've lived with the cousins for too long.:_

Tarii performed another odd-sided blink, careful to keep her attention on her surroundings at all times. _:And what is that supposed to mean?_:

_:It means I'm up a tree.:_ For a moment, the teleson-induced mental contact with her partner increased, and Tarii was treated to a shadowing of leaves across her vision for a split second. _:So I'm perfectly safe to concentrate a little and spy with you. Hirrn says hello, by the way.:_

The only possible response to that was another mental snort.

Aware that the up thrust of the thermal was beginning to dwindle, Tarii cast around for a fresh one that would carry her more over the top of the buildings they suspected the blood mage was laired up in. Once she was securely riding the new thermal, the gryphon redirected a small part of her attention to her fellow Silver.

_:Have you seen anything down on the ground?_:

_:Some tracks. Hath and Dinda found a latrine pit of some kind. It smelt foul.:_

_:Poor baby.:_

_:I'm serious, Tarii,_: Goldleaf's Mindvoice lost the joking overtone. _:Whatever messed in there does not have a healthy or normal diet. You saw what the Valdemarans had stashed away in Mage's Collegium.:_

Tarii sighed. _:I saw. I wonder—_:

It wasn't even a conscious response; Tarii's left wing folded and she tumbled sideways in a tight rollover as an instinctual response to the flash of warning from above. Something black and wrong looking shot down through the empty air where her neck had been and the gryphon immediately reversed her roll in a move that left her wing muscles aching as a second _thing_ screeched past her.

_:What was that?_:

Beyond maintaining a thread of connection, Tarii ignored Goldleaf's snapped question, concentrating more on gaining nominal control of her lateral motion before thrusting herself forwards into a steep dive, chasing after the things that had made a pass at her.

Peripherally, she was aware of the wildly moving dots that were the two Tayledras bondbirds, also evading attackers.

_:Tarii!_:

_:Ambush,_: she said shortly. _:Look out down there, let the mages know.:_

Any other communication was cut short by a burning lance of flame that rocketed up from the ruins at incredible speed and crashed full into Tarii's chest. Her last thought, as the wind was driven out of her, and silver-sparkles of pain danced across her vision, was that she _really_ hated being shot at.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **Only the wrong bits are mine, promise to put everything else back where I found it.

**Notes: **Sudden plot! Duck!

**Chapter Nineteen**

_A thickening of plot – A furious mage – An abundance of stealth – A bird with a purpose_

Michael was performing one of his two actually useful jobs on this trip, collecting firewood. The other job — digging a latrine pit — was not something he liked to think about. Nor was the fact that, the first night, Giff had had to talk him through the actual processes. Whilst Michael had been introduced to a lot of crap during the course of being a medical student (depressingly little of it actually _in_ the bedpan), the hole-in-the-ground thing was something new.

Pausing for a moment to rearrange the collection of twigs and branches in his arms, Michael also wondered what had happened to his large white shadow. He'd not noticed it while in Haven (possibly due to the hitting), but Giff was definitely on the clingy side. Michael hardly seemed to be able to turn around recently without nearly tripping over something white and horse-shaped.

Except for just now.

Michael felt his face curl into a frown as he looked around at the forest. Trees? Yes, lots of those. And also lots of plants in general, but nothing even remotely shaped like a Companion.

"Giff?" his voice sounded unnaturally loud, and it was that that made Michael realise that the forest around him was silent. Not just the disconcerting quiet of the countryside when you were used to living in a big city, but actual, solid silence. The kind of silence that held up all-capitalised narration cards pointing out that something bad was nearby.

Michael very carefully put down the branches he was holding and began to back towards where he thought the camp was. "Giff. _Giff._"

Something rustled off to the right and Michael gave up any pretence of dignity. Whirling around, he stumbled over a tree stump and lurched back towards the camp.

"Giff!"

The rustling intensified, turning into the definite sounds of something bulling through the undergrowth. Michael swore loudly as he rebounded off a scrubby bush and came close to twisting his ankle. He was painfully aware that this was not a scenario that could possibly end well; at any moment, he expected some _thing_ to be sinking its claws into his back.

A large, pale shape burst out onto the path just in front of Michael and he yelped, flinging both arms up fruitlessly as he stumbled to his knees. Whatever it was, it wasn't horse shaped, and Michael hunched over, trying to protect his head and front as best he could.

"_Giff!"_

_:Boy, get up.:_ The cloven hoof that thudded into the soil next to Michael's leg underscored the unexpected voice, and he was startled into looking up. A dyheli stared back at him. _:Get up,_: it ordered. _:We are under attack, you need to get back to the camp and the mages.:_

"I was going there," Michael protested.

_:You were going the wrong way.:_ The dyheli stared at him with its large, dark brown eyes and Michael felt a sudden great pressure behind his eyes, accompanied by a feeling of disconnection from his body. Of its own volition, Michael found his body levering itself back onto its feet, turning through ninety degrees and striding forwards.

"Hey-" The outside influence abruptly ceased and Michael wobbled on the edge of falling back down to his knees. A hard shove in the small of his back kept him moving forwards.

_:That way. Go. I've called your Companion.:_ As suddenly as it had appeared, the dyheli vanished, bounding away into the forest, lost amidst the greenery far more quickly than something cream and brown should be able to.

_:Michael!:_ Giff appeared around the side of an unbelievably large tree and skidded to a halt, his eyes wide and black. _:Get on, get on _now_.:_

"I, um." Michael stared at Giff's bare back, level with his nose, and gulped.

_:Now!_: The Companion dropped into a lying position, head twisting around to stare wildly about, ears pinned back.

Michael hurried to haul himself into place. He'd never heard Giff sound like he did at the moment, and it was making his stomach roil with dread. "I'm-" he didn't get out the 'on' before Giff had lurched to his feet and jumped from a standing start into a bounding canter. "Ah!"

Giff's direction seemed to chop and change every other step and Michael flung himself forwards, hands desperately scrabbling for a grip in the Companion's mane. Every other time that he'd been on Giff's back at a speed faster than a trot — a trot in a _straight_ line, on a _level_ surface — he'd fallen off within ten steps. And that was with a _saddle_.

"I'm going to fall!"

_:No, you're not.:_ Michael spared a moment to gape at the ridiculous certainty in Giff's voice. _:You're _not_. Any Companion worth their salt can keep their Chosen on their back. Trust me.:_

As Giff chopped and changed direction, seemingly reacting to signals and signs that Michael couldn't even begin to understand, he realised that what the Companion said seemed to be true. It was almost as if there was some strange force, simultaneously pushing him down and sticking him to Giff's back.

Michael relaxed—minutely—and began to pay attention to their surroundings. Which was when he became aware of the crashing sounds and strange, ululating cries echoing behind them.

"What is that?"

_:Don't ask. Please.:_

"Giff?"

_:I'll keep you safe, I promise.:_

Michael redoubled his grip on Giff's mane and tried desperately to believe what the Companion said.

Kit was not having a good day.

Currently she was up to 'f' on the alphabetical list of all the curse words she knew (there was a lot of 'f' in the six languages she knew), and she was doing _that_ because roughly half a candlemark ago what she'd considered to be a very subtle and low key scrying session went all the way to the third circle of Hell when the surrounding forest exploded with blood-made change creatures.

She and Melli were currently standing rump to rump, their bared teeth and long horns respectively helping keep their attackers at bay at least as much as the swirling shields of their riders.

_:Venni.:_ Kit squinted as a blinding whip of light arced over her ears, impacting a change creature that looked to have been put together out of the remains of at least three different animals squarely between the eyes. The monster let out a bubbling shriek and collapsed, scaled limbs twitching spasmodically.

_:I know, I know. Rainfox and I are going to deal with it on the count of three.:_

Kit took that for the warning that it was and dimmed her magic senses as much as she could. A bare moment after the Companion had reinforced her shields the air above her tore apart with a roaring sound and a tumbling wave of lightning swept across the small clearing, reducing all the creatures (and no few bushes) in its path to fine dust.

_:Well, that certainly showed them.:_

Kit half turned to look at Melli. The dyheli lowered her head to sniff at the dust, before raising her head to look back at Rainfox, who was panting in an attempt to regain her breath.

"Unfortunately," the Tayledras Adept said grimly, "it is going to take more than that."

"Hydatha's tits." Kit followed her Chosen's line of attention. Emerging from the settling clouds of dust were the twisted and hulking shapes of more change creatures. The Companion ground her teeth together and wheeled around so that she was flank to flank with Melli.

_:If we stand about here all that is going to happen is that they're going to keep on coming until they wear us down. We need to regroup somewhere that gives us the advantage.:_

_:I concur.:_ Melli spread her stance and shook her antlers warningly at something vaguely donkey shaped, but with feathers and antennae.

"Agreed," Venni said shortly, clamping her legs to Kit's sides. "Any ideas?"

"Ridiculous as it will sound, I believe our best chance is to make for the keep. Krii is giving me a fairly good overview." Rainfox correctly interpreted the inquiring silence. "He made it down safely and is hiding in the guttering. He says that he saw Hirrn and Goldleaf not that long ago."

_:I have been in contact with Hath. He says that he, Dinda and Jadin are also making for the Keep. Solid walls are an attractive proposition right now.: _Melli gave Kit a sideways look.

Kit sighed. _:Our turn for a count of three, then?_: She tensed and settled her hind hooves into the soft loam.

"Three," Venni said, leaning forwards over the cantle of the saddle, one hand knotted in the reins, the other glowing with mage energies.

"Two," Rainfox echoed.

_:One.:_

_:Charge!_: Kit flung herself forwards with a combined physical and mental battle shriek, aware that the others were echoing her cry.

_:Goldleaf?_:

The quiet question insinuated itself into the back of Goldleaf's mind and he tensed slightly, pressing in close to the half-tumbled dry stone wall he was using as cover.

_Hirrn?_ He thought back as carefully as he could. The kyree was too far away for his limited Gift of Mindspeech to project, he just had to hope that Hirrn's Gifts were enough to pick him up from intentions alone.

_:I can hear you,_: came the confirmation. _:I've met up with Hath. He says that Dinda and Jadin are heading towards the keep, so I told him to get them to hone in on you.:_

Goldleaf edged forwards a few paces and wedged himself into a hollow created by the bowing out of the wall around the roots of a scrubby tree. He gripped his climbing stick more firmly in one hand and concentrated on thinking as clearly as he could. _What about Tarii?_

_:I haven't found her yet.:_ There was a silent _but_ tagged onto that thought that Goldleaf didn't need even as minor Thoughtsensing Gift as his own to catch.

_Tell me, Hirrn._ A trickle of cold worked its way into Goldleaf's mind, ghosted across his thoughts as a sigh. _Dammit, I need to know! Not just because she's my friend, because she's my partner and I could _really_ use a giant flying carnivore on my side about now._

_:I found her teleson set in the forest. It was caught up a tree.:_

_That's a good thing, right? She must be near there, you have to keep looking!_

Another icy sigh. _:Goldleaf, I looked. And the teleson — the teleson was damaged, burned up.:_

_That's why my own teleson gave me a headache?_ Goldleaf sighed and rubbed at the tender patches of skin and singed-crinkly hair adorning his temples. Headache was something of an understatement. Whatever _thing_ had succeeded in landing an attack on Tarii had done so with magic; magic that had arced back along the connection between their shared teleson sets with concussive force, reducing Goldleaf's head set to useless metal and leaving him with a concussion and burns that Hirrn had been forced to speed-Heal so that he could stand up.

_:I think so.:_ The thread of Hirrn's sending thinned down for a moment, then returned. _:Hath has contacted Melli. She's with Rainfox, Venni and Kit. The four of them are trying to break through to the keep but they seem to have attracted the attention of most of the change-creatures, they're having a difficult time of it.:_

_Sketi._

_:My thoughts exactly. Goldleaf...I know you are not a mage, but that might be to our advantage.:_

Goldleaf grimaced. It was easy to see the direction that Hirrn's train of thought was going. _You think this Blood-mage won't be shielded from physical attack?_

_:I think that if we can all create enough distraction out here then the mage won't think to maintain any physical shields, sure in the fact that their creatures are chewing us up.:_

_Aren't they?_ Goldleaf thought angrily, then scrubbed his face with one hand. _I'm sorry._

_:You speak the truth,_: Hirrn acknowledged after a moment. _:You should not apologise for that. Goldleaf, I am going to have to break contact with you, We're about to flank Melli and the others and I'm going to need my wits about me.:_

_You'll end up dead or worse! _Goldleaf mouthed a few of the more obscene Haighlei curses that he knew.

_:I'll be very distracting.:_ The sense of Hirrn's mind touching his cut off and Goldleaf cycled through a further ten curses before levering himself out of his hideaway and darting to a position that gave him a good look at the deserted-seeming keep.

Not just deserted-seeming, Goldleaf decided after a moment. _Actually_ deserted. Hirrn was right about the change-creatures all being involved in hunting down the rest of his party. The Silver shifted himself into a runner's starting position and lined himself up on the nearest doorway to his position. The first task was to get inside, then he could worry about what he was actually going to do to the mage.

The run across the gravel-strewn yard to the doorway seemed to be the longest distance Goldleaf had ever had to cover in his life. He kept as low a profile as he could, and kept one hand firmly gripped around his climbing stick. Despite the appearances, Goldleaf was not about to let down his guard and find himself with the teeth of a change-creature lodged in his shoulder. As soon as he'd reached the cover of the shadowed doorway, Goldleaf pulled himself up, whirling to press his back against the weather beaten wood of the door, eyes darting around the ground he'd just covered.

Nothing.

Goldleaf slowly let out the breath he'd been holding and readjusted his grip on his climbing stick.

_:Mans!_:

"Sketi!" The Silver couldn't pull back the startled yelp that broke from his throat as a pale _something_ dropped down from above the lintel of the doorway and flew straight for his face. It was pure instinct for Goldleaf to bring his climbing stick up and over in a smooth curve, but the sudden shriek that the bird — and Goldleaf managed to get enough of a look at it to figure _that_ out, at least — let out made him abort the killing stroke.

The white magpie swirled to the ground and landed amid dust and ruffled feathers. As soon as it had settled its wings, it was glaring belligerently up at him _:Mans-friend! Rain-sib say Krii help mans-friend, so Krii help.: _A rebellious caw. _:Even if mans-friend more bad temper than big-not-bird.:_

Goldleaf sank to his knees and offered a cautious arm to what he belatedly realised was Rainfox's bond bird. "I'm sorry, Krii," he said carefully, trying to minimise his Kaled'a'in accent. "I didn't realise it was you." The bird made another derisive sound, but readily stepped onto his wrist, sidling up to his shoulder as Goldleaf stood up.

_:Rain-sib say that she and pointy-Melli and white-girls and white-horse come this way. Wants good den to hide in.:_

"You've just spoken to Rainfox?" Goldleaf tried to twist his head to look into Krii's black eyes. "Are Hirrn and Hath with them?"

Krii blinked and hooded his eyes. _:Pointy-Hath and growly-Hirrn are with Rain-sib,_: he said eventually. _:They are very shouty.:_

"I imagine that they are." Goldleaf took one final look around before turning his attention to the door. It wasn't locked, and the scout eased it open gently on its worn and rusted hinges. The slight groans and creaks that it made sounded far too loud for his straining ears. In side was a long, dusty corridor, only dimly lit by irregular beams of daylight that lanced their way down through the boarded up remains of a series of high windows running down one wall, up near the ceiling.

_:Old,_: Krii said disapprovingly. _:Dusty.:_

"Old and dusty is good," Goldleaf murmured as close to under his breath as he could manage. "It means that no-one's been in here for a long time." Cautiously, he moved down the corridor, pausing every ten paces or so to try the wooden doors spaced unevenly down both sides of the corridor. The ones in the wall with the windows lead to square rooms containing the rotten remains of furniture, broken-glassed windows in the wall opposite the door looking out over the barren mountain side. The rooms on the other side were little more than dark boxes, some utterly bare, others littered with the debris that mutely marked them as abandoned store rooms.

_:Not big enough.:_

"I realise that," Goldleaf sighed. "But I don't want anything sneaking up on us."

_:Mans slow. Krii look too.:_ Before Goldleaf could react, the magpie had launched himself from his shoulder, skimming low to the ground before his wing beats pulled him up into the air. The pale form of the bird rapidly ghosted down the corridor, before reaching a dim point ahead, where Goldleaf had to squint to make him out, and then swooping abruptly to the right.

"Sketi," Goldleaf mumbled, resisting the urge to run after the irritating creature, instead continuing his careful search and progress.

It was perhaps a quarter of a mark later that he finally reached the point in that Krii had vanished and discovered that the corridor split; the main part of it continued straight on, but there was also a narrow corridor leading off to the right. It was even more gloomy, but Goldleaf's eyes had grown accustomed to the low light level in the main corridor, and he was able to edge forwards with little trouble. Unlike the way he'd come from, there were no side doors. The corridor was one smooth, barrel-vaulted passageway that lead to a single, stout looking door. Goldleaf squinted up at the shadowed vaulting just above his head. He wouldn't be at all surprised if he was actually under the outer walls of the keep right now, which meant that whatever lay behind the door could well be what he was looking for.

_:Krii found dens!:_

Goldleaf jolted, feeling wind through his hair as he narrowly avoided banging his head on some protruding stone work, and resisted the urge to shout at the magpie. Who he couldn't see. Goldleaf frowned and looked from side to side until his attention was caught by a scrabbling from the base of the door.

The sound rapidly resolved itself into a pale-feathered creature that was wriggling through a triangular shaped split between the planks that made up the door. With a final squeak, Krii tumbled through, scrabbling to his feet to stare up at Goldleaf. _:Krii found dens!:_

Goldleaf stepped over the excited magpie and lifted the latch on the solid looking door. Pushing it open revealed a dim expanse of space, cut out of the rock of the mountain itself. At the far end of the space were a few lines of light, illuminating the edges of what Goldleaf figured must be a second door. He glanced down to make sure that Krii had followed him inside and then pulled shut the door. The atmosphere of this place was dim and strangely still, the air hung with the faint memory of mould and ticklingly familiar scents.

_:Nest for four-legs.:_ Krii fluttered past Goldleaf's head to perch on a wooden beam. As Goldleaf looked around he realised that the bird was correct: although the centre of the room was clear of obstacles, the remains of wooden partitions and hay racks indicated that this had been a fairly extensive weather-proof stables.

"Well," Goldleaf said with a sigh. "Something has actually gone right today."

_:?_:

"Never mind." Goldleaf shook his head and picked his way over to the far doors. They were barn-like in construction, with a smaller, free swinging door set into the left hand one. Goldleaf squinted his eyes in preparation and cracked the door open a small amount, taking in the terrain outside at a glance. A flat, open space that had probably been used as a rudimentary training area, ringed by some squat mountain bushes, and a fairly spectacular view straight down the valley that the keep sat at the head of. Goldleaf breathed a sigh of relief and pulled the door closed again.

"Right, we have work to do."

_:?_: Krii hopped down onto his shoulder and gave Goldleaf a wall-eyed stare.

"I need to start on barricades," Goldleaf gestured around, "and you need to contact your bond mate." At Krii's unhappy creel, Goldleaf shook his head. "No, I don't mean fly out there; you'd probably end up in the back of something's throat, and Rainfox would kill me herself. I want you to try and reach her with Mindspeech, you think you can do that?"

Krii considered for a moment before bouncing back up to his former perch. _:Yes, yes. Krii find Rain-sib and shouty-friends.:_

"Good," Goldleaf said with feeling before starting to make the stables into something resemlbing a defensible position.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable bits belong to better minds than mine.

**Notes:** I'd still keep your heads below the parapet.

**Chapter Twenty**

_Feathers and fury – Scales and sneaking – (not) horsehair and happenings – Haemorrhage and Healing _

The ground was further away than it really ought to be. It was also where the sky should be. Whilst, in the grand scheme of things, these weren't really the most important thoughts she could be entertaining, Tarii couldn't seem to get rid of them.

At least they were a distraction from the sensation that someone had used her entire body as an anvil, and then dropped her in the middle of a giant bell and started hammering belligerently on the sides.

"Ugh." Even her _beak_ hurt. There ought to be a law against that.

After a long moment, Tarii realised that the ground was above her because she was upside down, and that it was further away than it should be because she was in the canopy of a tree. First things first, then: getting out of the tree. Tarii closed her eyes and tried to reach the state of calm that the Silver Gryphon trondi'irns insisted was essential when trying to assess your own capacities.

It was a lot easier to reach a state of inner oneness when you were sitting in a comfortable classroom.

Once she'd managed about as calm as was possible when dangling in a tree after being swatted out of the sky by more magic than any one person had a right to be using, Tarii turned her attention inwards. Although she _hurt_, it was the burn of overly abused muscles, and the ringing pain of being on the receiving end of combative magic with blood-born power behind it. No broken bones, at least. Some careful shifting, and making use of her prodigious peripheral vision, confirmed to Tarii that she was caught in a netting of vines and creepers, strung between two vast branches.

It was a struggle, but Tarii managed to turn herself so that she at least had sky above her and ground below, even if said ground was still a disconcerting distance down. That had the added advantage of freeing her wings, and Tarii flexed and extended them experimentally, trying to judge if they'd bear her weight, or whether attempting to fly would result in her becoming rather more intimately related with the ground than she wanted. They twinged, certainly, and ached—definitely—but no worse than the rest of her felt.

So, she could wait for someone to come along and help (not likely), or she could get herself out the damn tree.

Suddenly sick at the thought of hanging around for whatever decided to come and attack her to turn up and take a few bites out of her haunches, Tarii began to kick and twist, putting her battle-claws to good use. Gryphons were not noted for being passive creatures.

With a series of heavy twanging sounds, the vines began to part company from each other. Each set of twangs was accompanied by a short, jerking drop and Tarii gritted her beak as the remaining vines dug sharply into her sides, waking up a few more insistent aches and pains. The snapping of the final vines came suddenly, and Tarii was startled into an undignified squawk as she struggled to extend her wings and get herself into some kind of glide. Faced with suddenly having to bear her weight, her major flight muscles immediately (of course) decided to cramp themselves into a set of knots that felt like being hit in the chest by a levin bolt all over again. As it was, the best the gryphon could manage was to aim herself at a large patch of brush, which cushioned her fall about as well as expected.

Spitting twigs and leaves, Tarii pulled herself from the crushed remains of the bushes and sunk her claws firmly into the ground, taking stock of her surroundings.

It was quiet. Very quiet.

Tarii growled low in her throat and settled her wings from half-furled to laying flat on her back—or _tried _to, at any rate. The movement made something sharp dig into both the underside of her right wing and her side. Biting off a curse, Tarii spread out the wing and twisted her head to examine the problem. It'd be just her luck to have not noticed having half a tree stuck in her side.

There was no tree, but her armour was ruined. The whole of the right side was buckled and twisted—as was, when she looked at it—the main body of it that lay over her keel. Tarii belatedly realised that a lot of her pain was probably due to the crumpled armour.

The bitten off curse from before made it out of her beak.

Tarii twisted, trying to hook the razor ends of her battle claws under the edge of the amour without lacerating herself. She had no time for finesse or trying to do things properly, and her metal claws could certainly manage to cut through leather straps.

The remains of the armour hit the forest floor with a thud, and Tarii picked her feet up to side-step it. Seeing it from the outside, Tarii was abruptly grateful that she had been wearing it, as it had clearly shielded her from the brunt of the attacks. And now it was gone, and any further stupidly heroic actions she took would have to be with no more protection than her own feathers.

Tarii sighed. No use crying over broken eggs before they were dropped. The next thing she had to do was find out exactly where she was and, by extension, where Goldleaf and the others were. After _that_ would be figuring out where all those damnable change-creatures were laired up.

Then maybe she would get to relieve some of her feelings by sinking her claws into something.

.

.

Rabbit pressed itself low to the ground and flattened its raggedy ears as close to its skull as it could manage. The Mistress had been angry when she had discovered the ragtag band of freaks and do-gooders trying to sneak up on the Keep, and as that kind of temper did not bode well for those nearby, Rabbit had made sure to absent itself. It had been drawn back, however, by the Mistress's delighted laughter, and had crept around her enough to be able to glimpse the images in the mirror she had set up in the main hall.

The Darlings were hunting, and the Mistress was amused by this.

But then, oh then, the do-gooders and their animals had fought _back_ and fought back well. And now—now they were gone, hidden, and the Mistress's rage now was like a hurricane compared to the flap of a butterfly's wings.

Rabbit was too scared to even move. Movement might draw the Mistress's attention away from her scrying spells, and the smouldering remains of two of the new Darlings that littered the floor were mute testament to why _that_ was a bad idea.

Tainted power crackled around the Mistress's head and randomly earthed itself on the edges of the mirror and the walls. The mirror showed no ill-effects—indeed, it was putting on its own lightning show—but patches of the wall were beginning to smoulder and given off a scent like bad meat being fired in a kiln.

Images in the body of the mirror itself swirled and tattered, like smoke pulled apart by winds: a distorted view of someone with silver stripes in his (her?) hair; a woman dressed entirely in white; the ghost-shaped of a dyheli. Rabbit leaned closer, fascinated despite itself, as the Mistress attempted to expand the view point of the spell, blowing power into it as carefully as the finest glass blower.

Like the view through a pane of cheap glass, the image stabilised for a moment, showing figures and shadows, rock-cut walls and a rough iron-bound wood door.

"Filth!"

The Mistress's enraged shriek sent Rabbit barrelling backwards until it collided with something soft. The Darling whirled, expecting whichever of the new Darlings that it had hit to retaliate with teeth and claws, and instead found itself confronted with the cowering figure of Dupe. Rabbit usually avoided the Mistress's...slave...for several very important reasons, not least because the geas-bound woman's behaviour and expressions sometimes frightened the Darling more than even the Mistress herself. But now—

"They are in _my_ home, creeping around _my _buildings!" The Mistress's voice effortlessly gave evidence as to just how much this revelation infuriated her, as did the seething mass of black-edged lightning that was crawling around her upper body, earthing itself violently in a dozen directions as she hit full voice and began to describe _exactly_ what she planned to do to these interlopers that _dared_ think they could best her.

Under the dubious cover of a table—flatware and crockery reduced to shards and ash, the table top itself smoking—Rabbit found itself clinging desperately to Dupe as hard as Dupe was clinging to it.

"Find them!" The Mistress whirled around and smashed the table away, glaring down at Rabbit and Dupe. "Get the others and _find_ them, and if you don't find them before I do, then I will take great delight in explaining my displeasure to _both_ of you."

Rabbit fled, not caring that the tracks it were leaving were at least partly due to its own waste.

.

.

Whatever magic tricks Giff had up his non-existent sleeves aside, Michael was beginning to come to the realisation that not even a whole _herd_ of magical horses, plus a gallon of super glue was going to keep him on the Companion's back for much longer. His legs _burned_, and the less said about the cramped lumps of bone and muscle formerly known as his hands, the better.

The rest of his body? Michael was trying to ignore that, or face the very real possibility of breaking down and sobbing his way into a truly epic bout of hysterics. Except that would add near-hypoxia to his laundry list of Ways My Body Fails Me.

At least the roaring of the wind in his ears as Giff plunged onwards (and how long had he been running for, anyway? Any normal animal would be collapsed on the ground by now) was drowning out the shrieks of whatever was chasing them.

_Thanks heavens for small mercies_, Michael thought sourly.

_:They're not chasing us any more.:_

Before Michael could do anything to process that, Giff jounced to a halt. Michael could feel the Companion's sides heaving, as he lowered his head and blew great breaths through his nose.

_:Something distracted them. I think it was the others.:_ The uninterrupted flow of Giff's voice was at complete odds with his breathing, and Michael found it disconcerting to the point of dizziness.

The wind was still roaring in his ears. Michael frowned. They weren't moving, how could he still hear wind when the air around them was cold and still? "Um," he said faintly, as his vision began to blur and waver. The roaring was getting louder.

"Um, Giff—" Michael untwisted one hand from Giff's mane and watched it shake and skip through the air in front of his have seemingly of its own accord. He felt cold, and yet his skin was slick with sweat, and his face was burning.

A blurry white shape reared in front of him. Giff, trying to turn his head around, Michael thought.

_:Michael?_:

"I don't—" Michael struggled to get the words out of a mouth that was suddenly filled with sawdust, tried to fit thoughts through a head that as filled with angry bees and razor blades. The pressing sensation that Giff had used to keep him mounted was now centred on Michael's head, making it feel like a melon about to burst.

_:Michael! Chosen! Speak to me!_:

The voice seemed so very far away, Michael thought dreamily. And the world it belonged to was so harsh and jangling.

_I don't feel well, _Michael tried to say, but softness and dreaming carried him away before he could form the words.

.

.

_:Well, isn't this cosy.: _Kit tried to muster up the energy to glare around at her surroundings, but was rather embarrassed to find that she actually needed most of her concentration to prevent herself from falling on her nose.

"Actually, it is." Kit had the grace to twitch her ears as Venni gave her a significant look before turning to Goldleaf. "Thank you, Goldleaf."

Kit flattened her hears further as the scout graced them both with a serene smile. If it wasn't for the fact that he looked as if he'd at at least as hard a fight to get here as the rest of them. _:I suppose so.:_ The Companion retreated to the far end of the stables as it looked as if Venni was gearing up to give her a lecture on her people skills; somehow, they had ended up with certain parts of the Herald-Companion relationship switched around. Kit was aware that she should probably care about this, but that would, 1) mean turning into a saintly darling towards everyone under the sun, and, 2) would be a complete waste of the reputation she'd managed to build up for herself as someone who had a fair chance of success at bullying everyone up to and including the Groveborn into seeing things from her point of view. Having Chosen one of the three most powerful Herald-Mages currently alive certainly helped in this.

Noticing that Venni was now deep in conversation with Rainfox, Kit felt it was safe to step out from behind the knot of dyheli (who were also in deep conversation with each other and Hirrn). Not that she'd been _hiding_. No, it was just that Kit didn't see how getting into a potentially marks-long disagreement with her Chosen would help their situation. Kit decided to actually pay attention to the two (or maybe one, now?) conversations happening around her.

_:I can't sense them in the immediate area, and I don't want to try and extend too much in case something else picks it up. The others feel the same.: _Hirrn rocked back on her haunches and blinked slowly as the dyheli voiced collective agreement. _:As much as I'm loathe to suggest it, I fear we're going to have to assume the worst about Tarii; that she is incapacitated, possibly captive.:_

Goldleaf's lips thinned and Venni muttered a heartfelt curse. "Kit, can you pick up Velaryn, Datti or Giff at all?"

_:No,_: Kit said flatly. _:I can tell that they're alive, but that's it. If I try any harder, we'll probably have an avalanche of monsters down on us.:_

"Yaska and Velaryn can take care of themselves, and I'm sure that I wouldn't want to be any kind of monster if I had to face down Shadowflame and Datti," Venni said with certainty. "Giff and Michael, though..."

_:The survival chances of a teapot made of ice.:_

"Thank you, Kit."

_:You're welcome, Chosen.:_

Further speculation was cut short by a faint rattling of stones outside, ending in a thump against the outer door of the stables that made dust motes vibrate into the air.

Kit whirled around, teeth bared, aware that the others were brandishing teeth, horns or weapons as appropriate. _:This is all we need—_: she started to say savagely, before an unexpected Mindvoice cut her short.

_:If it's not too much trouble, could someone open the door before we fall over?_:

_:Velaryn!_: Kit started forwards, but was forced to dance back as Venni and Goldleaf darted in front of her. Goldleaf counted to three on his fingers, then sharply pulled open the inset door. Venni ducked through it, wavering outline of a levin bolt curling over her right hand.

"Gods! Look at you!" Venni ducked back through the inset door and grabbed the latch to the larger door. "We need to get them in here before they attract any attention."

Kit backed up to allow Velaryn in, feeling her eyes widen as she took in the sight of the other Companion and her Herald. For a start, Yaska wasn't in the saddle (Velaryn didn't appear to _have_ a saddle any more), he was leaning heavily against her right shoulder, his own right arm swaddled in a makeshift bandage that was red with blood. Velaryn herself was mired with a mixture of dirt and blood, her right flank and back leg a criss-cross of angry gouges that still bled sluggishly.

"Keep on going," Yaska said breathlessly, breaking away from his Companion to stagger forwards, pushing back Kit and the others, who had impulsively started forwards. "We've got one more."

_:One more?_: Kit asked. One of _anything_, didn't sound particularly good, not when there were two separate pairs involving Companions still unaccounted for.

Velaryn stumbled to one side, revealing the mysterious 'one more' as a shadow hulking in the doorway.

"If anyone getsss in my way, I may verrry well bite them in two."

"Tarii!" As Goldleaf ran towards his partner, Kit continued to shuffle backwards, taking in the gryphon. Whilst not as obviously haemorrhaging as Velaryn and Yaska, Tarii was coated in what appeared to be a fine layer of ash and about half a hanging garden. She also smelt like burnt feathers and Kit wrinkled her nose.

_:Both of you get over here and sit down. Venni, I trust you and Rainfox know which way on to put a bandage. See to Yaska while I stop Velaryn from bleeding all over the floor.:_ Hirrn bulled straight to the front of the group. Kit was faintly amused to notice that the kyree was _actually_ producing a bit of bark to underscore her Mindspoken orders. _:Tarii, for pity's sake, will you sit down before you fall down? And don't give me that look, madam, put yourself to use helping Goldleaf deforest you.:_

"I did not look like anything!" Tarii protested loudly, mantling her wings. "Oucshss."

_:Sit! Down!_:

"Yesss ,motherr." Tarii sat down with a thump that sent a wave of burnt feather smell in Kit's direction.

Hirrn, who was almost nose-deep into one of the larger wounds of Velaryn's side, didn't even glance at Tarii. _:Don't you 'mother' me; Yaska, if you do not stay put and let Venni put that bandage on you properly, I will give you a bite wound that will make the ones you've already got seem like insect bites.:_

_:I think one of the change-creatures _was_ an insect,_: Velaryn offered.

_:Honestly, you're as bad as a classroom full of troublemakers. Dinda, can you show Venni where the bandages on; Rainfox, you need to give me better light than what I've currently got; Melli, I need a boost for this Healing spell or else Velaryn's going to hiccup and cover us in internal organs.:_

_:They're not _that_ bad.:_ Velaryn twisted her head around to stare at Hirrn as she was joined by the snow-white dyheli.

_:Of course they're not, dear,_: Melli said calmly. _:Just hold off of hiccuping for the next half mark or so.:_

_:What did you happen to?_: Kit elected to approach Tarii as, bar Goldleaf, who was picking bits of foliage out of her feathers, she was the easiest to approach. Hirrn was proving that a Healing-trance was by no means a bar to her continuing a running stream of directions to anyone unlucky enough to fall under her purview. Kit didn't particularly want to get co-opted into holding the end of a bandage unless it was absolutely necessary.

Tarii let out a growling breath and clenched her claws as Goldleaf extracted a thumb-length splinter from the leading edge of one of her wings. "I happened to verrry little," she said sourly. "Mucsssh thingss happened to me."

"Involving trees, many of them did, by the looks of you." Goldleaf pulled out a second splinter and waved it under Tarii's beak. "You had me worried!"

"You werrre worrrried?" Tarii protested. "_I_ wasss the one who got ssshot out of the sssky with magic." She pointedly turned her gaze to Kit, ignoring Goldleaf. "It isss not pleassant, I do not rrecommend it."

_:I can imagine.:_ Kit sighed. _:I do not suppose that you saw any signs of the others on your way here, did you? I don't know if Datti and Giff heard the message to get here.:_

Tarii shook her head carefully, mindful of the fact that Goldleaf was now half on her back, examining her other wing. "No; I hearrrd no messsage, it wasss only that I found Yassska and Velarryn being attacked by sssome bug-thing that I ended up herrre myssself."

"If your head rings anything like mine was, I am not surprised," Goldleaf's voice was muffled as he ducked under Tarii's chin and disappeared under her wing. "Lift up."

Tarii obediently canted the limb in question upwards. "What did you hit yourrr head on?"

_:From what I understand, the backlash from you being hit,_: Kit ducked her head to look at Goldleaf before looking back up at Tarii. _:Hirrn had to patch him up before she and Hath came and jumped on the beasties that were chasing us.:_

"Huh." Tarii's eyes pinned as she considered this. "I wonderrr if therre'sss a ssspell sso we can go back and trrry thiss day frrrom the sstarrt, but with lesss monsssterrss?"

Kit let her eyes drift over to the other side of the stables, where Velaryn was now acting as a back rest for her Chosen while Hirrn examined his arm.

_:You and me both.:_


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: ** Still not mine, which is probably the best thing for the world at large.

**Notes: **I force you to sit through 50,000+ words of blathering, and then I hit you with ALL the plot at once. This, ducklings, is why I don't attempt to earn a living with writing (I'd starve. In about a week).

**Chapter Twenty-One**

_Beyond a dream – Beyond a joke – Beyond all hope_

_:Michael? Michael. Michael.:_

Although the voice sounded _off_, the repetition and and inflection were enough like Ralph to make Michael determined to jump up from the couch in the staff lounge make a good attempt at fastening his hands around Ralph's throat—or at the very least, his shoulders—and shaking _hard_. He'd been on duty for over twenty hours, seven of which had involved separating what was car door, and what was person, and he needed _sleep._

_:Michael. Michael. Michael.:_

As if to underscore just how much Michael needed the oblivion that was being chipped away by that voice, his body realised that he was awake enough to start receiving complaints. First, foremost, and primarily, there was the headache that was eating his brain, starting with his feet.

"G'wy."

_:Michael!_: The shout was like shampooing with molten lead. Michael curled his arms over his head, rolled over onto his side and pulled his legs up, a whimper managing to make itself out of his mouth before he could stop it.

Abruptly, and surprisingly, some of the intense pressure in his head receded and was replaced by a strange kind of coolness. For some reason that Michael couldn't understand, the coolness brought with it the colours white and blue.

_:Chosen?_: the voice said hesitantly. _:Please wake up.:_

With the word 'chosen', it was like a door opened inside Michael's bruised and aching skull, and knowledge flooded through him. His eyes popped open and he found himself nose to nose with something very large and white. "Giff?"

_:Oh, thank Havens!_: The blurry white thing drew back and resolved into Giff's horsey face. _:I was worried you'd cracked your head open when you fell.:_

Michael blinked in an unsuccessful attempt to get his eyes to focus. Giff remained vaguely blurred around the edges, almost as if he was glowing with a faint inner light. "I think I did—wait, fell? Fell off what?"

_:Me.:_ Giff flattened his ears (at least, Michael presumed that was what the Companion did) and his voice became soaked in a mixture of shame and embarrassment. _:I'm sorry, I should never have let you slip off my back like that. If I were a—_:

"You've managed to stop us getting eaten so far." Michael levered himself into something like a sitting position and frowned. Quite apart from the thumping migraine, something was...off.

Giff shied sideways and looked around nervously. _:We were in the forest, anything could have jumped out without any warning. I had to move you.:_

Belatedly, Michael realised that the dampness of the back of his shirt was due to saliva. "Oh. Move," Michael trailed off as he looked around. If Giff wasn't in his field of view, the world was slightly less blurred, but not by much. The world appears to contain crumbling walls and dirt and weed covered flagstones.

_:It was the only direction that I couldn't sense any great number of change-creatures in,_: Giff said defensively. _:And...and I think that the others are around here somewhere, but I can't Reach them.:_

"We're at the Keep." Michael didn't even bother making it a question; it was obvious. "By 'the others', you mean?"

_:Companions. Definitely Kit and Velaryn. I think Melli and the other dyheli as well, but I can't get a good fix on them.:_ The Companion sighed. _:I should be able to—the Web means that I should know where the other Companions are for _sure_ but I can't. My head...hurts and I can't.:_

Michael frowned and managed to make it to his feet and lurch over to Giff's side. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?" The closer he got to Giff, the more jagged and insistent the pain that was centred behind his eyes got.

Giff winced. _:No, I mean, yes. I'm okay. I didn't hit my head. I think it's the power flows around this place. They're...wrong.:_

"Yeah. What you said," Michael sighed and closed his eyes, leaning in close to Giff's shoulder. For something white, Giff threw off a surprising amount of heat. The warmth of felt good against his forehead, somehow seeming to leach a small part of the headache out from behind his eyes. "We should get under cover before something springs out and eats us."

Whatever reply Giff may have been about to make was drowned out by a harsh, chattering, squeal, and the sound of tumbling stones. Michael snapped his eyes open as he found himself being shoved backwards. "Giff!"

The Companion ignored his shout. In fact, Giff actually whirled around and Michael found that the stumbling backwards motion he was doing from Giff's initial shove with his shoulder was suddenly boosted by the Companion planting one hind hoof firmly on his sternum and _shoving._ Michael reeled backwards, managing a half dozen steps before colliding with a wall and managing to catch himself with it, hands skidding over the rough stone, abrading his palms.

"Giff!" Michael shouted, just as Giff reared up, lashing at the air with both front hooves, voicing a shriek that brought tears to Michael's already blurry eyes. Involuntarily, Michael crouched down, clapping his hands over his ears. It was from this new position that Michael could suddenly see why his Companion had suddenly flipped out.

Crouched arch-backed in front of Giff was a creature that looked as if several normal animals had been mashed together with no regard for sanity or style, enlarged and then chewed on by wolves for a solid month. The _thing_ gaped open a mouth that sported a collection of dirty fangs and hissed, a noise like water hitting hot metal. As it shook its head from side to side, the thing's long ears flopped back and forth, and it continued to hiss defiance.

_:Michael, run.:_

"But—" Michael protested.

_:I mean it,_: Giff's voice wobbled slightly. _:You've got no chance against this thing. You need to get out of here. Now.:_ Giff gave voice to another shriek and reared again, hopping forwards a few steps, front hooves whistling through the air. His aggressive actions were at complete odds with the very scared and very young voice in Michael's head.

"Giff—"

_:Go!_:

The sheer force behind the mental command hit Michael like a ton of lead bricks. He found himself instinctively obeying, in pretty much the way way as when the dyheli had taken brief control of his body at the start of this whole nightmare. Once he was up on his feet and moving, adrenaline and fear kicked in, overwhelming everything else. Michael kept one hand on the wall and stumbled away. The sounds now behind and to one side of him changed from posturing hisses and shrieks to a hellish cacophony and impacts and screams. A small part of Michael was desperate to turn around—run back—do something, _anything_ to help Giff, but it was overwhelmed by a spike of such intense fear that Michael's vision darkened around the edges.

He broke and ran.

Loose stones and rock fragments skittered beneath his feet, making Michael lurch from side to side, banging into the wall on his left. He made it around a corner—a move that made the sounds of battle from behind him echo and doppler strangely. There was a sudden, sharp pain in Michael's head, worse than _anything_ he'd felt before, and he let out a hoarse cry, stumbling into the wall for support—

—to where the wall _should_ have been for support.

Michael fell through the half-concealed window hole, aware only of a sensation of great space below him before the side of his head impacted hard with the crumbling stone lintel, and everything went black once again.

.

.

"I think that's got it." Rainfox frowned down at the shallow, rough-glazed basin filled with water that she'd been sitting tailor-seat in front of for the past half-mark. She brushed her hair back from her face and glanced around as she was suddenly thrown into deep shadows. Everyone in the stables-cum-refuge was crowding around her to look at the surface of the water.

Venni squeezed in under the legs of Melli and Dinda and crouched next to Rainfox. "Yaska and I've got the shields up and as disguised as we can," she said. "Are you okay? It is Krii—"

"We both agreed," Rainfox replied. "I would not have forced him to go." she nodded down at the wavering image in the basin, an oddly-coloured, distorted view of the inside of a guttering pipe. "Besides, Krii has a penchant for sneaking into places at home. He has a weakness for shiny things and he's yet to be caught in the actual act. The only thing that lets him down is his belief that I don't know where he hoards things."

Rainfox knelt forwards, her face creasing, and the image in the water solidified, became more opaque. Mentally, she followed the wisp of magic that was all she dared use to connect the two ends of the scrying spell together. _:Krii.:_

_:Dirty feathers, Rain-sib,_: Krii complained.

_:I know. I need you to find the biggest room you can, that will be where the bad lady is nesting.:_

Agreement from Krii. Rainfox sighed and let the connection to her bird thin back down. Although all three of the mages had layered shields on Krii before he had left, there was no sense in creating any extra danger.

Melli touched the back of Rainfox's mind and she sighed internally, gratefully accepting the flow of strength that the dyheli offered. Whilst they were nothing like the Herald-Mages and their Companions, she and Melli had partnered each other for many years, and were well aware of each other's limitations.

Light grew in the bowl as Krii reached the end of the pipe and cautiously squeezed out. A rapid lateral blurring was him shaking himself all over before taking wing. Once in the air, Rainfox found the dipping and shifting view of flight from a bond-bird's perspective strangely soothing.

_:That is extremely disorientating.:_ Rainfox glanced up at Venni's Companion, who was squinting. _:How do you get used to that?_:

_:Practice,_: Melli said, just as Tarii snorted and flipped her wings. "Iss perrfectly naturral," the gryphon added. Rainfox stifled a smile, keeping her attention on the bowl.

Krii drifted along as close to the ceiling as he could get, fastidiously avoiding the many ropes of cobwebs that hung liberally from once-fine plaster mouldings and hanging-lamp fittings.

"He's getting into the more public sections of the building, judging by that," Yaska said quietly.

Before anyone could respond, Krii veered sharply to the right and back winged to an abrupt halt. The basin showed a jerky montage of objects as Krii picked a spot and landed, for hopping cautiously forwards. It looked like the bird had picked the formerly-glazed decorative window above a large door. _Why_ he had was obviously: the room inside was large, and it was lit by more lamps (and a large fire) than they'd previously seen in all of the rest of the building.

The view jigged and changed as Krii tucked himself away behind an elaborate wall sconce that was empty bar for the dried husks of some insects and tilted his head to look around the hall.

The walls were sooty and smeared with dirt and ribbons of smoke from the badly fixed fire and a handful of charcoal braziers wound through the air. The space over the mantle of the smoking fire was crudely adorned with the stretched out skins of a couple of change-creatures.

_:Nothing like creating that homey feeling,_: Kit muttered sourly. Rainfox barely heeded her, concentrating on holding the power flow into the scrying spell as steady and as undetectable as she could.

What furniture there was in the room that wasn't scorched and scored with claw marks had simply been smashed into pieces. The only exception was the overly elaborate pseudo-throne that sat on a slight dais at the far end of the hall. The only living creature in the hall, bar Krii, was sprawled negligently in that throne.

"I don't believe this." Venni. Rainfox was aware of the Herald-Mage fisting her hands into tight balls.

"_That_ isss what we arrre up againssst?" Tarii leaned closer to the basin, casting Rainfox into a deeper shadow, as she squinted at the image. "I do not _believe_ thisss."

Rainfox sent a faint pulse of _stay still_ down her bond with Krii and sat back to look around at the group. Their faces uniformly showed the same kind of shock that she supposed was on her own face.

"Agree with Tarii, I do," Goldleaf said.

_:This isn't exactly what I was expecting, either,_: Hirrn clacked her teeth together meditatively and jerked her nose in the direction of the bowl.

Rainfox involuntarily glanced down at it, and was momentarily caught by the image it held again. The figure in the throne was female—there was absolutely no language, especially not the touch-language that the hertasi used when deep underground, that she could be mistaken for anything _but_ female. Her outfit, what there was of it, seemed to consist almost entirely of black leather and gold-washed metal, and was clearly meant to act firstly as a way of accentuating her...assets, and secondly (and almost negligently) to provide a place to attach assorted weapons and a cloak of what appeared to be ermine. The paint on her face was stylised and elaborate; her hair style was even more so.

_:She looks like an amalgamation of every overly dressed evil sorcerer in every badly written ballad from the time of Vanyel onwards.:_ Kit sounded deeply offended.

"I am now even morrre eagerrr to damage sssome headsss," Tarii grumbled.

Rainfox had to agree with the gryphon on that one.

.

.

"You look like a pile of owl castings."

Giff winced as something prodded him firmly in the side, and opened his eyes. He appeared to be sprawled on the rocky ground, nose-to-hoof with something that had white fur. Rolling his eyes, Giff found himself being stared at by Datti. On one side of the mare, using her shoulder as a support, was Shadowflame. She prodded him with her walking stick again.

_:Ow. Please stop doing that.:_ Giff managed to pull himself upright and to his feet. Once there, he was able to look past the pair to see the _very_ deceased looking remains of a change-creature with long rabbit ears. _:Oh, Gods.:_

_:What?_: Datti stepped forwards and cocked her head at him. _:It's a dead change-creature. We've all been killing them today, it doesn't make you anything special. Don't waste time feeling guilt. _They _and their mistress certainly didn't feel any.:_

_:No, you don't understand.:_ Giff twisted around, ignoring the thousand and four aches and pains that began to race over his abused hide as he cast around.

"Then explain, instead of acting like a ninny." Shadowflame banged her cane on the ground to emphasise her point.

_:I—Michael and I—he fainted and this was the only place I could get him to. He woke up and then that—that thing appeared and I fought it and now I—_:

_:Now you don't know where your Chosen is.:_ Giff was too upset to read whether Datti's Mindvoice carried overtones of worry or exasperation.

"Marvellous, that's just what we need." Shadowflame limped over to the corpse and studied it for a moment. "Well, you managed to kill this thing before it could harm your Michael." The mage sniffed at the air for a moment and then limped back to Datti's side. "Make yourself useful," she said, elbowing Datti.

Somewhat to Giff's scattered surprise, Datti didn't remove Shadowflame's head either literally or figuratively. She merely folded her legs beneath her, allowed Shadowflame to mount and then gained her feet again.

_:Well?_: Datti fixed Giff with a look that was identical to the one Shadowflame was giving him, expectant and irritated. _:You've been bonded enough that you should be able to _find_ him. Lead on.:_

"We can keep our eyes out for the rest of them while we go," Shadowflame added shortly. "So get a move on."

_:I—yes,_: Giff stuttered and grasped inside himself for the tie to his Chosen. It throbbed, unpleasantly echoing the headache that had been dogging Giff for most of the day. _:He's alive.:_ Giff couldn't help but go limp with relief, dropping his head low.

_:For the moment. Get your tail in gear.:_

_:Sorry!_: Giff jerked back to himself and backed up a few frightened steps. This was probably the longest period he'd ever spent in mental contact with the lone Companion, and the icy feeling she gave off scared him almost more than the blood-path mage who was almost on top of them.

_:It's this way.:_ Giff began to pick his way towards the ominous hulk of the Keep, aware that Datti was following him closely.


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: **And yet again, not mine!

**Notes: **You know what? We're actually getting on towards the end of this beastie.

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

_Concussed – Combative – Contentious – Camaraderie _

At first Michael thought that the last blow to his head, obtained during a plummet which seemed expressly designed to defy any and all laws of gravity necessary to see him impact painfully with every projecting bit of stonework in existence in the _world_, had rendered him blind. Then he realised that the brilliant stripe of grey floating some distance above him, even if it was partly obscured by strange and angular shadows, was daylight pouring in the window he'd plummeted through.

_Only I,_ Michael thought sourly. _Could find a ground floor window that has a twenty foot drop._

The second thing that Michael realised was that, despite the fact that nothing seemed obviously broken, any and all headaches he'd had up until that point in time had been mere appetisers; brief patches of fog before the tropical monsoon; the light squalls before the hurricane driven storm; absolutely and in _no_ way as painful as his head was now, right this minute.

"Oh, god," Michael whispered to himself, fighting the simultaneous urges to stay still and move in some way. Moving won out, and Michael had to roll over as fast as he could and push himself up on his hands and knees so that he could be violently, wrenchingly, sick. That helped, marginally. Enough to get Michael to his feet, even if the floor did buck and sway underneath him, and the shadowy length of the corridor he was in wavered and danced.

Giff. He had to find Giff. That thought somehow caught hold and put itself firmly in front of Michael's attention. Giff was a Companion, he could do...something, even if that something was only to shout until Hirrn heard and then she could come and work her magic.

_I'm seriously thinking about finding a magic horse so that he can find an equally magical wolf and the magic wolf can _think_ me better. _Something morbid stirred in Michael's chest and a laugh clawed its way up out of his throat before he could stop it. Three times it echoed, then twisted and changed, becoming something black and heavy that pressed down on him almost like a weight.

_I'm going to die._

Down the corridor, there was a scraping sound, and something moved in the shadows.

_._

_._

Tarii was feeling claustrophobic, and she was sure that the only way to successfully relieve this feeling would be to bite things in half. In lieu of anything to bite, she was pacing, ignoring the others who were still crowded around the scrying basin. As far as the gryphon was concerned, the fact that their enemy appeared to have been beaten over the head with every travelling theatre cliché about evil mages was nothing to sit around and flap about. Flapping could be achieved _later_, what needed to be happening now was biting.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," Goldleaf said in their native Kaled'a'in, stepping into Tarii's path, his arms crossed over his chest.

"All the talking iss wearring a hole in my brrrain," Tarii replied in the same low tone. "Grryphonss arre not dessigned forr sssitting, we arre dessigned forr _action_."

"I know, I know, believe me." Goldleaf held up a placating hand. "But the action thing hasn't been working out so well for us up until this point, has it?"

Tarii produced an irritated growl and abruptly sat back on her haunches. "It doess not feel rright to hide away in a hole."

_:It is the right thing to do if it means that we all see the sunrise tomorrow.:_ Hirrn ghosted up and sat next to Tarii. The kyree glanced between the Silvers and then indicated the group around the basin. _:The mages have come up with some spell they're trying to cast through the scrying spell they've got going already. Whilst the dyheli and Companions are willing and able to act as external power sources, I need to keep my strength husbanded for putting you idiots back together again.:_

"Huh." Goldleaf gave the mages a speculative look and sank down in a cross-legged seat where he had been standing. "Did you manage to get out of them what the spell is supposed to do?"

_:Several things, if I understood what Venni was getting at.:_ Hirrn stretched and sank into a lying position. _:It's actually several spells tied together, that they're trying to cast on the Keep itself. It's supposed to be some kind of double sided mirror spell, keyed only to Venni, Rainfox and Yaska.:_ Hirrn paused for a moment. _:And Shadowflame, of course, when she shows up. Both Venni and Yaska have worked with Shadowflame enough to be able to build recognitions for her shield patterns into whatever they make.:_

"Hmmm." Tarii half extended one wing then refolded it. "And what, exssactly doess thiss sspell do?"

_:I was getting to that,_: Hirrn tsked. _:Half of it will be facing outwards, keeping all of the change-creatures out _there_, and the other half will be facing inwards, centred on the hall where Princess Chain-mail is lounging around. They're hoping to make it so that any magic she tries to use will be reflected back on her, instead of reaching us.:_

"I hate to be pessimistic but, as the cousins say, battle plans do not last past the first engagement." Goldleaf lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Sorry."

_:True enough, which is why we're going to be advancing as soon as they've got the spell set and anchored. In fact, I'm supposed to prevailing on your and Tarii's fine Silver minds to come up with something that won't get us eaten for dinner within three paces.:_

Faced with something to actually _do_, Tarii's towering irritation faded away and her tail began to flick absently from side to side as she began constructing possible plans in her mind. From the similarly preoccupied expression on Goldleaf's face, her partner was doing exactly the same thing.

Behind her, as a low counterpoint to her thoughts, Tarii could hear the rhythmic speech that, to her, marked out spell casting.

.

.

_:Inside. Of course.: _

Giff winced at the flat, unimpressed, tone of Datti's voice and paused halfway through the broken down doorway he had led them to.

_:Well don't just stop there and block the way,_: Datti continued. _:Get your daft white behind inside before something spots it. Shadowflame, unless you want the top of your head flattening, you're going to have to give up the dressage posture.:_

Since Shadowflame's seat in the saddle could best be described as 'slouched', Giff's anticipation of just _what_ her response to that would be only helped him get through the doorway faster.

"Only if you give up the fancy footwork."

Once inside what turned out to be a arch-roofed antechamber of some kind, Giff stepped quickly to one side and stared dumbly at the pair that followed him. _I don't think my nerves are up to this._

_:Huh.:_ Datti twitched her hide and looked around. _:Mud room. Unless you want to find some decrepit wet-weather clothing to hide under, I suggest moving, Giff.:_

_:It's..._: Giff gave a frustrated moan and cast from side to side. _:It's difficult to sense him in here. I think he's hurt. I think he's unconscious. I—_: Shadowflame's stick unceremoniously poking him in the side brought him back to the here and now, before he could get lost in the spiral of panic and worry that was trying to take over his mind.

"Don't even think about it," Shadowflame said sharply.

_:But something is _wrong_.:_ Giff had to fight the urge to roll his eyes and back up until his tail was safely in a corner.

"Really?" Shadowflame fixed Giff with a gimlet-eyed look. "Are the ravening monsters a colour that offends your delicate eyes? Or is it the smell of death that's gotten up your lily white nose?"

_:Shadowflame.:_

"Oh, don't you go jumping to his defence just because you're siblings in stupid white fur."

Giff breathed an internal sigh of relief as the Tayledras mage's attention was briefly removed from him, although he'd never have thought that he'd have Datti to thank for something like that.

_:Don't be ridiculous. There _is_ something happening, and Companions are involved in it.:_ Datti twisted her head around to look at her rider, who blinked in surprise, before gaining a distracted expression.

"I see it. _What _are they up to?"

_:The Gods only know. I can't get through to Kit or Velaryn without letting the world and his wife know where we are, they're too bound up in whatever that is.:_

Giff darted his attention between Companion and mage. _:It's Venni and the others who are doing something with magic?_: he asked hopefully. _:They could be trying to help Michael.:_

"Don't be ridiculous," Shadowflame said shortly. "Whatever they're doing, they're thinking very hard about mirrors and this benighted building as they do it." A beat. "Sheka."

_:What? I don't understand.: _ Giff tried to follow the magic glittering on the very edge of his perception, tried to pull meaning from it as Datti and Shadowflame both seemed to have no problem doing.

_:They're sealing the building with a shield, Giff. Shadowflame, you need to decide whether or not that bird of yours is going to die outside or inside.:_

"I am aware of that." Giff watched as Shadowflame's hands tightened visibly around the walking stick that she was currently carrying across the pommel of the saddle. "Horse, _will_ you get out of the way?"

_:I don't—_: Giff started to say, but was cut off as Datti abruptly barged into him, using his own surprise—and the fact that she apparently had more strength than should be contained in the body of one skinny mare—to bodily shove him sideways.

The weak sunlight filtering through the door was cut off as a rushing shadow filled it, then shot through the door itself, kicking up a veritable hurricane of dust as it back winged to a skidding halt on the floor. Giff didn't even pretend to himself that he didn't shrink behind Datti as the bond-eagle fixed him with a belligerent glare.

"Yes, I am _quite_ aware that you dislike blind stoops into buildings," Shadowflame hissed. "So you can just get that burr out of your tail feathers. If you'd stayed outside you'd've been on your own against the Star Eyed only knows what."

Ayren spread his wings and half jumped, half flapped his way to a perch on the claw-scored pommel of Datti's saddle. The mare twisted her head around and gave the bird an appraising look. _:Well, at least you asked this time,_: she said. Which sounded utterly cryptic to Giff until he realised that he obviously wasn't hearing whatever Ayren was saying.

"Hm." Shadowflame nudged Ayren until his feet were wrapped around her walking stick, which she braced cross-ways on the saddle. "Brace yourselves; here it comes."

_:What?_: Giff didn't get any more than that out before the air seemed to grow thick and warm, culminating in a sensation that made all of Giff's hair stand on end as something there, and yet not, clapped firmly into place just outside the door they'd entered by.

Datti flicked on ear and sniffed loudly. _:All the subtlety of a lead roofing tile to the face.:_

"You can say that again," Shadowflame muttered sourly.

_:At least they've keyed it to you as well.:_ Datti rolled an eye back to look at her rider. _:Aren't you the lucky one?:_

_:Michael—_: Giff tossed his head and cast around as _something_ stabbed into his head. _:There's something—he's over that way—_: Caught up in the overwhelming need to find his Chosen and protect him, Giff completely ignored his companions in favour of bolting through the doorway that led deeper into the Keep. Behind him, he heard a cut off curse in Tayledras, and a scuffling of hooves as Datti followed him.

"Stupid horses," Shadowflame spat. "I don't suppose you can contact the others or talk some sense into that idiot before he runs head first into a mess?"

_:No. And no.:_ Not even the icy tone to Datti's Mindvoice could make Giff pay heed. Michael was close and he was _in danger_. That was the only thing that mattered in the entirely world.

_:Oh, Chosen. Hold on, I'm coming!:_

.

.

He was being followed. At first Michael hadn't been sure that the scuffling sounds that underscored his own stumbling footsteps weren't just echoes made by himself as he wandered aimlessly along the dark and grimy passage.

They weren't. He was sure of it now, even being hampered by a headache that resembled a volcanic eruption behind his eyes.

"Hello? Who's there?" Even as the echoes of his voice faded away, Michael cursed himself for being so_ clichéd._ The scuffling sounds abruptly stopped. As monumental a bad idea as it was, Michael found himself edging back down towards the now-absent sounds. His eyes must have adjusted to the frankly atrocious light levels because he could make out a hunched shape amidst the shadows.

_This is a bad idea. A really, _really_ amazingly bad idea. If a figure in a ghost mask, wielding a knife, jumps out at me, Giff will have permission to say 'I told you so' for the next fifty years. If I survive. If I'm not stabbed to death. Painfully._ Michael stuttered to a halt as his mind devolved into increasingly fragmented and ridiculous thoughts (for one thing, it'd take far to long to explain the whole concept of horror movies to a magic white horse, let alone the brilliant deconstruction of them).

"I'm not going to hurt you," Michael felt compelled to say. "In fact, I'm probably the least likely-to-hurt-you thing that you're going to bump in to, and I'm including inanimate objects and empty spaces in that."

The hunched shape moved; a limping sidle forwards that made Michael's gut curl in abrupt and complete terror because, really? What had he been thinking? Walking up to a mysterious and misshapen creature in a castle _full_ of mysterious and misshapen creatures who wanted to eat his _face_? That had to be a new level of idiocy even for—

It was a girl.

Michael blinked, but the view didn't change.

A perfectly ordinary, human-looking girl wearing stained and ragged cloak and a sack-like tunic and very little else. Pointed features; wide, dark eyes set in dark skin covered in marks that could have been bruises, could have been smears of dirt; expression halfway between confusion and fear; reaching out to poke him with— "Ow!" —one surprisingly strong and bony finger.

The girl lurched back at his exclamation, uttering a low sound that could have been a moan, could have been an apology. If it was an actual word, it wasn't anything that the dyheli dictionary could parse.

"Sorry, sorry." Michael held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Didn't mean to startle you. Can you even understand what I'm saying?"

The girl—young woman, really—cocked her head to one side and raised a hand in a mirror of Michael's own gesture before burrowing it deep in the matted snarl of hair that tangled around her head in tatty dreadlocks. Her forearm was covered in crude tattoos, swirling shapes and glyphs that Michael's eyes didn't want to focus on, skittering away instead to focus on something—anything—else.

"You," Michael coughed. "Are you one of...her servants?" It was the only sensible explanation he could come up with for why the girl looked as she did, and why she wasn't madly stabbing away at him.

She blinked and edged closer to him again, eyes wider than the dim light levels could really account for, and not entirely focused. Michael was abruptly aware of his psych-ward rotation, and the droning voice of the senior psychiatric nurse who had been responsible for what was unofficially termed 'dealing with crazies 101'.

Michael tried a smile—no teeth, maintain eye contact only briefly to avoid seeming confrontational—and extended one hand. "I think that we should team up," he said, trying to keep his voice level and soothing. Hopefully she would grasp the tone and intention, if not the actual content. "I have some friends around here and they can take us somewhere safe. You'd like that, yes? Somewhere safe and not here."

The girl blinked slowly. Stared at him, then strangely _through_ him in a manner distinctly similar to that employed by Hirrn. Stared at his outstretched hand as if it was something entirely out of her experience. Given what else was running around this hell hole, it probably _was_. Michael didn't want to examine that line of thought too closely.

"Hey, I really can promise that I'm the least dangerous thing around here." Michael wiggled his fingers slightly. "And some of the dangerous things are definitely on my—our—side. More than I guess your boss's would be. I hope."

The girl's nose twitched, something like a smile fleeting across her mouth. With almost glacial slowness she reached out and put her own thin, scarred hand in Michael's. It was cold. Michael curled his fingers closed and resisted the urge to try and chafe her hand warm. No telling how she'd react to that.

Another carefully non-challenging smile. "Okay, um, let's carry on, shall we?"

Michael breathed out slowly as the girl sidled up closer to him, keeping up with the slow pace he set. The proximity to another person who was human shaped and who didn't want to kill him was more comforting than he could easily articulate.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, never was, never will be! Except for the broken bits. They're my fault. Oops.

**Notes:** For Jaelle. Although maybe she won't want it. Ahem.

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

_The best laid plans – The worst laid plans – The sharp turn left – The sting in the tail_

_:At least the shield is holding.:_

Venni spared the fragment of time needed to whip a glare in Melli's direction, before twisting her hands in the complicated pattern that resulted in a chunk of loose masonry removing itself from the ceiling and embedding itself firmly in the back of the head of one of the change-creatures that were regrouping in order to join the mob already attacking them.

The Herald-Mage was on foot, back to back with Rainfox, their personal shields rippling above and below each other as a melded whole. A short distance to her left, Yaska and Goldleaf were guarding each other's backs. Just beyond them, the Companions and dyheli had formed a swirling knot of pale fur and deadly hooves. Contrary to Yaska's shouted command to _stick together!_ At the start of the fight, Tarii had bounded forwards, shadowed by Hirrn, carrying her part of the battle into some kind of gathering hall. Venni had started to shout at the gryphon for that, but it had quickly become apparent that whilst the extra space gave the change-creatures room to manoeuvre, it also allowed Tarii to lash out to the fullest extent of her capabilities.

"The cousins have a saying about this," Rainfox said flatly.

"The Shin'a'in have a saying for every occasion," Venni felt compelled to point out, in between deep breaths. Running mage fights against hideous monsters were perilously close to becoming tedious through repetition today.

_:Be thankful we're not resorting to listing them.:_

"Thank you, Kit—watch out!" Venni sent a levin bolt twisting to impact the side of one of the monsters leaping at her Companion, whilst Kit performed a writhing leap that allowed her to kick the second change-creature in the head. Venni's target skidded sideways, smoke boiling up from its side, and skittered off squalling; Kit's hit the floor with a juddering thud, its head reduced to a red ruin.

_:Velaryn says Yaska is wondering if you've noticed what's happening when you use magical attacks.:_ Kit looked across at her Chosen. _:Just now being a prime example.:_

_:They have shields rendering them partly immune to magic, and the only thing that's really hurting them are purely physical attacks.:_ Venni ground her teeth together as she joined Rainfox in spinning up a flickering mass of fire, sending it rolling in the direction of knot of creatures that seemed to have been made using the parts from both reptiles and a horse. _:I'd noticed. I wager that Rainfox has as well.:_

_:Not just that.:_ Venni felt the strange almost-echo as her Companion extended herself to include Rainfox in the conversation. _:One of you launch a magical attack at a change-creature, any strength. Watch what happens. I didn't realise what I was seeing until Velaryn pointed it out.:_

"The one with the insect wings and the wolf ears," Rainfox said sharply, leaning back against Venni and turning, so that they moved through ninety degrees and could both look at the change-creature in question.

"Got it."

_:Don't waste power, it works on even a touch,_: Kit said cryptically.

Rainfox grunted and flicked a spark of a levin bolt at the insect-wolf. It hissed and flinched, but Venni was more concerned with the way that the odd half-shields that all of the change-creatures they'd encountered were sporting flexed and pulsed.

"Sheka," Rainfox spat.

"They're channelling some of the power," Venni said flatly. "So the more we throw at them—"

_:The stronger something—or someone—becomes, yes.:_

"And I can just _guess_ who that's going to be."

"We need to get together. All of us, behind a single shield," Rainfox suddenly announced. "Then we can set off a firestorm."

"That may be our best chance," Venni agreed, dislodging another bit of ceiling to pelt an enemy with. "Kit—"

_:Velaryn and Yaska agree. Goldleaf said to Yaska that he doesn't care what we do, as long as he doesn't end up going down a change-creature's throat feet first.:_

_:As do we,_: Melli put in. _:I will—Hirrn is also in agreement and says that she will bully Tarii into going where we need her to.:_

Venni took a deep breath and glanced around. _:I think we need to get to Tarii and Hirrn. We can group up more effectively.:_

_:And the more change-creatures that we can get crowded around us, the more you can burn down to cinders.:_ Kit broke off contact as she reared to scream a challenge at the change-creature trying to dive down her side and hamstring one of the dyheli. A flash-flash of silver hooves, and another corpse was slumping down to lay amidst the impressive collection littering the floor around Kit. _:I approve of that plan. Do you want us to push through first?_:

_:I don't want to leave anyone stranded,_: Venni said firmly.

_:Pardon.: _The calm Mindvoice was at complete odds with the blood-curdling snarling and growling that Venni could hear Hirrn producing from the hall. _:We have managed to draw the mob after us into the middle of the hall. If you all rush at once, no one will be left behind.:_

_:And?_: Kit asked suspiciously.

_:And you will pull our tails out of the fire.: _Sardonic amusement. _:So to speak.:_

"Count of three, then?" Venni asked, adding, "and the strangest sense of repetition."

"On three," Rainfox agreed.

_:I've told Velaryn and the dyheli.:_

"Three, two—" Venni rocked back on her heels. "_One!_"

The Herald-Mage lurched forwards, right hand pulling her until-now neglected short-sword out of its scabbard, as Rainfox spun around on her heels so that they were standing shoulder to shoulder, her left hand brandishing a claw-ended climbing stick.

_:Start running, we're coming up behind you!_: Kit ordered, spurring Venni into a sprint that was hampered by the blood slick floor and the scattered and humped corpses of change-creatures.

"Balance!" She felt Rainfox link their free arms together, allowing them to stabilise each other. Behind, Venni could hear Goldleaf shout something, but it was drowned out by the trumpeting racket the Companions and dyheli were managing to produce. A confusion of fast-moving scales and feathers; Venni lashed out with her sword, shunting mage-power into the blade to make it glow red and cut hard, and then—

—they were tumbling across a dirt encrusted tiled floor, boots impacting in counterpoint. Venni stumbled sideways, leaning on Rainfox as her right ankle didn't _quite_ twist. They slowed enough that the Companions and dyheli overtook them, swirling past them in a thunder of hooves and lashing tails who quickly flanked the hodgepodge creatures of cat and spider that was facing off against Tarii and Hirrn.

"Turds!" Venni swore harshly as she turned her ankle for the second time, the grips of her boot soles useless in the face of the slick layer of blood covering the tiles. "Rainfox, let go or we'll both go down!"

Rainfox grunted her disagreement and tightened her grip on Venni's arm even as the Herald-Mage struggled to free herself, slipping sideways on the floor. Something loomed from behind on Venni's right side and she whipped her head around, trying to get her sword up to a defensive position.

"Please don't!" Goldleaf ducked her badly-angled swing then dove in so that Venni ended up with her right arm looped over the Silver's shoulders, taking all of her weight off her right ankle, and most of it off her left as well.

Venni stifled a yelp as the three of them continued forwards at a staggering run that ended snug up against Melli's side. Kit shouldered past the other dyheli to replace Goldleaf as he dashed off to batter at the change-creature harrying Tarii. Venni clung to her Companion and twisted around, just as Yaska half-tripped and half-dove to safety.

_:We're all together!_: Kit shouted.

"Stay close!" Rainfox ordered as she tightened her grip on Venni's hand.

In less dire circumstances, Venni would have been proud—and a little awed—at how quickly she and Rainfox managed to mesh and expand shields, which swirled silvery in between the group and the attacking change-creatures. Their hisses and cries were suddenly muted, as if Venni had stuffed wool in her ears.

The spell potential that sang _firestorm_ built up around them, making prickles run all over Venni's body. "It'll go in three," Venni said, ignoring Tarii's muttered comment about "morrrre thrrress," "I'd closed your eyes."

In the back of her mind, Venni could feel Rainfox juggling her half of the spell energies, letting the potential for flame build up to almost unbearable levels. Assent surged along the connection between them and Venni abruptly relaxed her hold on the flames.

The last thing Venni saw, before she squeezed her eyes closed, was the air outside their shield erupting with brilliant blue-white flames.

.

.

_:Dammit, Giff!_: Datti's voice echoed in Giff's mind. _:If you don't slow down and start _thinking_, I am not only going to let Shadowflame use her walking stick on your thick head, I'll _sit_ on you to facilitate matters!_:

_:But—Michael—_: Giff tried—and failed—to make himself coherent, instead settling for trying to scrape together some of the gut curling panic and stabbing head pains that were all that the young Companion could associate with his Chosen, and _shoving_ them wildly in Datti's direction.

"Sheka! Gods be damned sparkly horse. Alliance between our people or no, as soon as I lay my hands on you, you're going to wish you were born without Gifts!" Shadowflame, sounding more furious than usual.

It didn't matter, though. The only thing that mattered—the only thing in the world that Giff could bring himself to focus on was the part of his soul that belonged to his Chosen, and the foreboding like a mountain of iron that was trying its best to crush him to the ground. Giff sped up, hooves beating loudly on the grime encrusted flagstones, heedless of the fact that he was leaving the others behind.

_:Giff!_: Before Datti could expand on the threat implicit in her tone there was a dull _thump_ of sound, something that Giff felt more than heard, and then the floor and walls were vibrating, sending dust particles skittering through the dim air.

Giff's sense of Michael was suddenly superceded by a hair-thin and thought-fast sensation of flame and hot and magic, making him stumble heavily, side impacting with the rough stone of the wall hard enough to remove skin. Shaking his head violently, Giff continued forwards, heedless of the stone rasping at his side for the long moment before he managed to stagger back to something approaching balance. Behind him, Shadowflame's cursing took on a new volume and timbre.

_:Wait!_:

_:I can't!_: If anything, the messy wash of offensive magic had only made Giff feel _worse_. _:I _have_ to get to Michael.:_

_:It wasn't a suggestion, Giff. I am _ordering_ you to stop.:_

The end of his tail was suddenly grabbed in strong teeth and pulled _hard_. Giff couldn't contain the squeal of pain, nor the instinctive lash out backwards with his hooves. He felt one foot hit something a glancing blow, sliding slightly across something soft before it moved. Datti dropped her grip on his tail, blistering the inside of Giff's mind even as her own hoof beats dissolved into an uneven cadence.

_:I'm sorry,_: Giff cried. _:But I can't—_:

A flare of—something—and suddenly, overlaying the corridor, Giff could see a bright, fire-lit hall; the cold-faced, scantily clad woman lounging in the throne and glaring; the white bulk of two Companions clustered inside a gaping hole in the wall; could feel the bone-grindingly hard grip on his wrist and the cold sharpness of something pressing into the skin of his throat. _:Michael!_:

.

.

Despite the fact that his own hand was sweaty with heat—in fact, Michael felt like he was burning up, even though he shouldn't have any kind of fever—the girl's hand had yet to be anything other than ice cold, even though they hadn't let go of each other for the past however long.

"I know you don't understand me," Michael huffed out, trying to catch his breath. "But any kind of indication of a way to go that doesn't end up with teeth and claws and death would be really useful about now."

The girl made an odd grunting sound in the back of her throat and tugged him into a faster walk. At first Michael didn't realise what they were heading towards, then it became apparent that the glowing beam of light they were heading for was nothing of the sort; it was the glow of fire and lamp light spilling from a partly open door. The chances of there being anything good behind that door were slightly less than that of Michael sprouting wings like his angelic namesake. He tried to slow their pace.

"Look, you probably don't realise this what with being all crazy and medieval, but I'm a veteran of many horror matinees and I know that the one thing you don't do when you're in the castle of the crazy killer is to run cheerily towards any evidence of inhabitation and normality."

The girl ignored him.

"No, really—" Michael hoped that she'd at least understand the tone if not the content, "—this way only death by cleavers lies!"

Michael tried to jerk his arm free only to be left gasping as the girl tightened her grip until Michael could feel his wrist bones grinding together.

"Hey!" Panicked. "Stop!"

Any further protest was cut off by pain spiking through Michael's head that was so bad he honestly thought that he was going to pass out. As it was, his vision strobed black and he felt his feet slip from under him as the girl propelled both of them through the doors.

Light. Brighter than Michael expected and he blinked rapidly as he regained his footing. For some reason, the girl was now behind him, the firm grip she'd managed to keep on his wrist meaning that his arm was now twisted uncomfortably up behind his back.

_:Michael! Shadowflame, do something before she has him!_: Giff's voice crashed through the pain in Michael's head and he was surprised by the rush of sheer _relief_ as he caught sight of his Companion prancing and rearing in a much larger doorway directly across the hall. Datti, with Shadowflame in her saddle, was close behind him. Then Michael followed Giff's panic-stricken gaze and found himself looking at Xena the Warrior Princess's tacky twin sister. The relief abruptly morphed into the ice water shock of fear, primarily because tacky-twin had her hands raised and she was haloed by flickering curtains of greenish-purple fire.

_We're all going to die—_

Except that Datti was shouldering Giff aside, hard enough to make the stallion stumble, and the silver-white glow she was surrounded by was only eclipsed by the crimson-orange glare that Shadowflame was radiating. The Tayledras Adept raised her own hands—Ayren, who was clinging to the pommel of Datti's saddle mirroring his bondmate by mantling his wings—crimson bolts of lightning lashing forwards to meet the green bolts that tacky-twin unleashed. The two opposing streams of energy obliterated each other in a flash of darkness, heat and a rolling wave of acrid ozone smell.

Michael choked, coughing as the ozone hit the back of his throat. The girl crowded up hard behind him, hissing, wrenching Michael's shoulder and making him gasp for a second time, his exclamation of pain quickly devolving into a bout of racking coughs as he tried to catch his breath on air that stung like acid.

_:Shadowflame!_: Giff's voice again, fading in and out of Michael's mind with needle-jabs of agony.

Michael didn't hear any reply the mage might have made, but she suddenly glowed with an inner light that exploded forwards as a bolt of pure energy, aimed directly at tacky-twin. The howling roar of Shadowflame's attack was underscored by two shrieks—one of triumph from Ayren, and one of pain from the girl. She sagged forwards against Michael's back, panting harshly into the nape of his neck even as she made him stumble.

Shadowflame's magic abruptly ceased revealing that the spot where tacky-twin had been standing was empty bar a twisting column of smoke.

_:Michael!_: As Giff gathered himself to charge across the hall, Michael went to step forwards, but was stopped as something cold touched his throat.

"Do not even think about it, witch-horse."

Giff's expression morphed to one of horror as he jerked backwards, palpable terror radiating from every pore.

"What—?" Michael croaked, confused.

The girl adjusted her grip on his wrist and pressed the knife more firmly against his throat. "Do you want to know how many months it took me to perfect Dupe?" she asked in a dangerous tone. "My dear, effective diversion until you bird-brained idiots come blasting in here with nothing but brute force and a complete disregard for artistry."

"You're insane." Shadowflame, flat voice.

"I'm compensated." Michael shivered as the girl—the _real Blood-mage_—leaned forward and purred in his ear. "You are a very special young man and I'm just going to _adore_ making you my very own darling."

.

.

While to all intents and purposes, Shadowflame was akin to a marble statue of perfect calm, Datti was privy to the Tayledras woman's thoughts. They were not at all calm.

Datti had put it down to her innate cynicism—honed over a lifetime of regret—but she'd been acutely suspicious of the so-called Blood-mage as soon as she got her first clear look at her in, as it were, the flesh. The fact that a mere volley of levin bolts was enough to dispatch the so-called threat only confirmed Datti's suspicions. The strange little woman hiding behind Michael suddenly producing a black iron knife that pretty much screamed malevolent intent and using it to hold Michael hostage sealed it.

Sometimes Datti hated being proved right in her low opinion of the universe.

Shadowflame reached the end of a string of blistering curses. _:The bitch is shielded to a fair-thee-well,_: she said tightly. _:I haven't got a chance of getting through those shields quickly enough to stop her from cutting Michael's throat from ear to ear.:_

Giff moaned, a low, hopeless sound that made Datti shiver.

_:I can't lose him—I went so far away to find him.:_

"Now, now, now," the Blood-mage said, her accent giving a strange cast to the Tradespeak words she was using. "I wouldn't try anything foolhardy. I can manufacture a Darling from a corpse as easily as anything else." Enough of her face was visible for Datti to see the cruelly amused smile curving the Blood-mage's mouth. In contrast, Michael's face was sheet white, his eyes dilated to almost pure black as his gaze appeared to skitter around the hall, driven only by fear.

As Datti stared at Michael and the Blood-mage she felt a strange feeling of cold certainty trickle into her mind for perhaps the first time since she'd given over Gillan to fate and duty. The mare knew, with sudden and utter clarity, what she had to do.

_:Shadowflame, get off. Your bird too.:_

_:Making me less mobile is hardly going to help matters!_: Shadowflame protested, even as Ayren croaked and obediently half-hopped, half-flapped from the saddle to a perch on a broken bench slightly behind them.

_:Get off of your own accord, or be thrown.:_

_:You wouldn't dare.:_

Datti turned her head enough to look at Shadowflame with one blue eye. _:No,_: she admitted. _:I need your head on straight, but you can't stay on my back.:_ The Companion tried to put her seriousness and certainty into her gaze and locked eyes with Shadowflame. After a brief moment the Adept sighed and Datti Felt her acquiescence.

_:I hope you know what you're doing,_: she said as she awkwardly twisted in the saddle, kicking her feet free from the stirrups, hauling her bad leg roughly over the cantle and sliding down to the ground. Datti braced herself as Shadowflame grasped at her side as she tried to get her buckling legs to support her.

"Hiding behind your shiny horse won't help," the Blood-mage sneered. "I can sense what you're doing before you even do it. Surrender now and I'll have your throats ripped out nice and quickly. I've called my Darlings; your thrice-damned friends didn't get them all, and I have more than enough to make your endings prolonged and unpleasant if you anger me."

_:Datti—_: Giff was staring at her, questions flickering in his eyes.

_:Support Shadowflame,_: Datti said firmly, as she took a deep breath. _:And keep hold of that bond to your Chosen as if it's the most important thing in the world.:_

_:It is.:_ A fervent tone that made Datti think of might-have-beens.

_:What are you up to, horse?_: Shadowflame leaned heavily against Giff's shoulder and glared suspiciously at Datti.

Datti let out the breath she'd taken, blowing out her doubt with it. _:Giving you your opening. Stay linked to me. You'll know when to strike.:_

Before even of them could question her further, Datti pushed past them and stepped out into the hall, her attention fixed on the pair of figures across the room.

"Try anything, witch-horse, and I'll end him and ensure you take a moon to die."

Michael gasped out a breath as the knife pressed more firmly into his neck, a thin line of blood appearing at the blade's edge.

Datti pushed that image away and fixed all of her attention on the Blood-mage as she continued to move forwards. With each step, Datti called up her memories and regrets—the boy named Gillan that she'd never really Chosen, and the bitterness of giving him up, allowing that to twist her up inside, make her less than what a Companion should be; the loneliness that hurt her as much as it protected her from the unwanted sympathy, then vague exasperation and wariness, of the other Companions and the Heralds—and let them burn her as she'd not allowed for decades. Pain, soul-wounding pain as hot and bright as that awful day when the ringing of the Death Bell had signalled far more than just the death of a Herald.

Datti held that white-hot emotion firmly. She was vaguely aware, in the back of her mind, that she could feel Shadowflame choking down the tears of loss and betrayal that Datti had lived with for most of her life.

"What are you doing?" the Blood-mage shrieked, as Datti focused all of her mind and being on the malignant soul in front of her, and extended herself in the way that she'd promised herself she would never, ever do.

_:Now, Shadowflame,_: Datti said calmly, as she release the shadowed and twisted thing that was her self-made Call. _:Hello, Enyivika. My name is Datti and I condemn you as I Choose you.:_

As Datti slid easily past the Blood-mage's protections and bound their minds together, she felt a moment of pure, perfect calm, before the inside of her head exploded with the crimson-shaded glory of Shadowflame's magic.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, only playing, will rake the sandbox back over when I'm done.

**Notes:** Ahem.

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

_Dazed – Confused – Contused – Displaced_

_:Well, that was unpleasant.:_

Venni couldn't even find the wits to give her Companion the sarcastic response that her statement deserved. Hirrn, however, seemed to have no such compunctions.

_:Your talent for stating the obvious borders on the divine.:_

_:Had much truck with divinity? You sound like the voice of expertise.:_

"Kit, this really isn't the time," Venni managed and she opened her eyes and squinted at the soot-patterned ceiling.

_:My wandering paws have taken me through Sunhame,_: Hirrn said, before adding, _:your Herald is right. And she was the one channelling one half of that conflagration.:_

_:Mind-bond,_: Kit pointed out in an aggrieved tone, underscored by a clatter of hooves. Venni's vision was filled with a filth-covered white muzzle. _:Are you okay?_:

"I'll be better as soon as I know you're not about to sneeze on me."

A wheezing laugh which, when Venni turned her head, turned out to be coming from Tarii. When she caught her looking, the gryphon shook out one of her wings and sighed. "The inssside of my head feelsss like my outsssidesss look."

_:I think all of us are in the same boat.:_ A second clatter of hooves preceeded Melli's nose appearing above Venni. _:Are you able to get up?_: the dyheli asked. _:Rainfox is out for the count.:_

"I am perfectly fine, Melli."

_:You are seeing double and have only just regained consciousness,_: Melli corrected calmly. _:And I do not think that you have enough energy left to light a candle, let alone tap a leyline or node.:_

"I'm good for sitting and maybe walking—" Venni's ankle gave a vicious twinge that quickly escalated into a throbbing morass of pain and she revised her opinion. "Sitting on the ground or sitting on Kit." she levered herself up onto her elbows and surveyed the hall. "Luckily, that's about all we're going to have to deal with by the looks of things."

_:Have you forgotten the Blood-mage?_: Hirrn asked incredulously.

"I am morrre than capable of biting and clawing," Tarii eagerly put in.

Rainfox mirrored Venni and the two women slumped against each other. "I feel that Shadowflame has ensured that your bloodthirsty tendencies are purely academic at this point, Tarii."

"Pardon?" Goldleaf appeared from under one of Tarii's wings and looked questioningly at Rainfox.

"Shadowflame let rip with a fairly heavy duty burst of magic as we were trying to control that mess." Venni waved a limp hand at the charred remains that were spread around the hall, barring the roughly twenty foot in diameter circle that the group were crowded in.

"Which is partly why we fell over," Rainfox added.

"We all fell overrr," Tarii muttered. "Goldleaf, if you do not sstop poking at my ssside, I will be forrrced to _eat_ you."

"Caring for my partner, I am," Goldleaf said firmly. "Apologise for that, I will not. Your side is a mess and needs stitching, at the least."

Hirrn's Mindvoice easily cut across the gryphon's growl of exasperation. _:I have enough in me to make sure that nobody's insides fall out. Bruises and scrapes, however, you're on your own with.:_

"That's a point; are we all still in one piece?" Yaska, Venni was surprised to discover, was the ash-encrusted lump a short distance from her feet. Velaryn was an equally coated mass behind him.

A chorus of half-hearted 'ayes' in both voice and Mindspeech. It took Venni two attempts to figure out that everyone in the group had answered, none with and variation on 'argh, argh, I'm in seventeen non-contiguous pieces!'

"We should go and find Shadowflame. Hirrn—"

_:I will patch people up, starting with Tarii as she seems determined to ooze everywhere.:_ Hirrn didn't let Rainfox finish, and completely ignored Tarii's protests that the bleeding had only restarted with Goldleaf's prodding. The kyree skirted the clustered dyheli (excepting Melli, who was still hovering next to Kit) and half vanished under Tarii's left wing.

Kit sidled closer to her Chosen and Venni looped an arm around one of her forelegs, patting absently. She was just coming to the rather depressing conclusion that all the skidding around before had actually broken something in her ankle when she became aware that her companion had stiffened and was almost vibrating with tension. Kit's head and neck were extended and twisted off to one side, as if she were focused on something only she could sense.

Velaryn scrambled to her feet, mimicking Kit's pose exactly, heedless that her sudden movement had pushed over Yaska, who had managed to position himself against her side.

_:What is she _doing_?_:

"Who? What? _Kit?_" Venni thumped her Companion's leg in a vain attempt to gain her attention.

There was a pause of maybe three heartbeats before Kit and Velaryn started violently and simultaneously Broadsent, _:Get down and shield!_: before taking their own advice and diving for their respective Chosen.

Venni barely had time to bolster her shields before there was a deep, booming sound that violently shook what felt like the whole Keep, if not the entire valley. Hard on the heels of that was a surge of crimson-silver-blue mage energy that rapidly whited out Venni's mage-sight, and made every particle of her being thrum with vicious vibrations.

The shaking of the building became worse, the bucking of the floor gusting up great clouds of ash. Venni clung to Kit's neck, aware that Rainfox was gripping her waist and Melli was practically on top of both of them.

Just as Venni became convinced that the torrent of magic howling around them was going to permanently damage her Gifts, it stopped with shocking suddenness.

"What?" Venni croaked into the echoing silence. "What was that?" She felt Kit shudder all over, but the Companion didn't make any reply.

"Kit?"

The silence twisted, intensified, and morphed into the one sound that Venni despised above all others; a deep, sobbing bell toll that cut into Venni's head and obliterated all other thought.

.

.

Michael barely noticed the pain in his knees as he dropped to the broken tiles of the floor. His eyes were blinded by dazzled tears, his ears full of the echoing fuzz of tinnitus, his skin burning like he'd just spent three days on a sun bed cultivating melanoma and—last but not least—his mind felt almost crushed by Giff.

It took Michael what felt like a year to puzzle out the fact that his head was still attached. The last clear thing that he remembered, there'd been what felt like a cleaver cosying up to his carotid artery, and falling forwards like he'd just done should have resulted in near-instant spurty death.

_:Michael!_:

But why _had_ he toppled forwards? Michael frowned as he rocked backwards and swiped futilely at his face in an attempt to clear his eyes. His face felt raw, and Michael hissed as his fingers encountered sticky wetness.

_:Michael!_: A blast of air that felt superheated, and something large and solid thumping him in the chest. Michael threw his arms around the whatever-it-was in an attempt not to be knocked onto his back. As his fingers encountered snarled, but still silky, hair, sense memory prodded him sharply.

"Giff?"

_:Oh, thank the Gods.:_ Giff exhaled a large breath onto Michael's thighs and slightly loosened the crushing grip he was still maintaining on Michael's mind.

Michael felt dizzy with sudden light-headedness at this and coughed reflexively. The white noise in his ears abruptly died and Michael also found, between one blink and the next, that his vision had returned.

"Why isn't my head cut off?" he asked rather plaintively. "And who's ringing a bell, or am I imagining it?"

_:You're not imagining it,_: Giff said in a shaken tone as he folded himself down to the ground and curled himself around his Chosen. Michael had not been aware that horses could bend that much.

"Is it the others?"

_:It's the Death Bell.:_ Giff shuddered all over. _:For Datti. She—she didn't make it.:_

"She _chose_," Shadowflame said with a bitter twist of irony. "In more ways than I suspect you know, Giff." she limped over to them and stared at Michael. He found it even harder than usual to meet her unflinching gaze; there was something otherworldly in Shadowflame's eyes, and it was in no way diminished by her palpable exhaustion.

"How can we hear it if it's in Haven and we're here?"

Shadowflame grimaced and lowered herself to sit on a broken stone that looked to have once been part of some impressive ceiling vaulting. "I'll leave that answer to the magical horse," she said. Ayren half-hopped, half-flew from out of the shadows to crowd onto the same perch as his Bondmate.

_:It happens, sometimes.:_ Giff didn't seemed inclined to explain any further than that.

Michael sagged against his Companion's side and rubbed gingerly at his forehead. He'd thought that his headache would abate once Giff has released the death grip he'd apparently had on Michael's mind—for who knows how long—but the persistent grinding pain was still front and centre. Quite literally.

"She's really gone?"

_:Yes.:_ There was something unidentifiable in Giff's Mindvoice, almost as if the Companion wanted to say something extra, but not only didn't know how to elucidate it, but was also convinced that Michael and Shadowflame were not the right audience.

"We should find the others," Shadowflame said. "Giff, can you contact Kit or Velaryn?"

Michael felt Giff twitch under him. _:I...no. My head hurts.:_

"Great." Shadowflame glared at them then at the ground. "I haven't got enough left in me to light a candle, let alone sift through the etheric muck drowning this place. There's no chance of me getting a fix on anyone."

"So—" Michael swallowed a surge of nausea that came from out of the blue. "So what do we do?"

"I'm thinking," Shadowflame replied, before stiffening and muttering something that sounded uncomplimentary in her own language. Michael watched in bemusement as Shadowflame reached out and stroked Ayren's head with one gentle finger, catching the eagle's attention and staring into his eyes for a long silent moment.

"Um." Michael hesitantly broke the silence, hoping that Shadowflame wouldn't hit him too hard.

"I had Ayren speak to Rainfox's bird. They are coming this way. They appear to be in about the same state as us, although second hand information via a corbie and a raptor isn't the clearest in the world."

"Oh." Michael leaned further into Giff and suppressed the urge to whimper as the grinding headache curled down his neck and tied a knot in his spine.

Shadowflame frowned. "You look even worse than I do," she said, uncharacteristic worry colouring her voice.

"It's just a headache," Michael mumbled, closing his eyes briefly.

"Like your Companion also has?"

Michael fought another brush with nausea as Giff shifted under him.

"Spill, horse," Shadowflame said. "What Gift of his did you not bother to appraise the rest of us of? Nor gain any kind of training for, if the way you're both squinting at me is any indication."

_:You don't understand—_:

"I _understand_ that you both look like backlash is eating your insides worse than it is mine," Shadowflame pointed out. "And, as the Adept that just assisted a Final Strike, I feel that I can be the authority on the matter."

"Datti's gone," Michael said softly, trying to make it seem real, just as Giff said:

_:No, listen to me. Michael doesn't have any Gifts.:_

Michael blinked and glanced at Shadowflame, aware that a strange silence was spreading around them. The Tayledras woman looked confused. Plain confused, as opposed to, say, annoyed-confused, or, well, any other emotion that found itself unwillingly mated to the baseline of rage that Shadowflame seemed to Michael to find as integral to her life as breathing.

"Um..."

"Latent Gifts. There's certainly been more than enough flying around today to trigger even the most passive of capabilities."

_:No.:_ Giff flattened his ears and looked (even more) miserable as both of Shadowflame's eyebrows leapt towards her hairline. _:But he is my true Chosen!_:

Shadowflame shook her head slowly. "I am never going to understand your lot. Now if—"

_:Well, finally.:_

Michael focused on the doorway that he and the girl had entered through what seemed like a hundred years ago. He didn't think he'd ever been so happy to see a giant wolf in his life.

_:They're here.:_ Hirrn shoved at the decaying door with one shoulder and picked her way into the hall. Behind her, down the corridor, Michael could see lights bobbing in the air. Below them, were cautious moving figures.

"You look like something spat you back out after half a mark of chewing."

_:I invite you to look in a mirror, Shadowflame,_: Hirrn said as she halted in front of Michael and Giff. _:Michael, you don't look so good.:_

"Headache," Michael managed. "Give Giff the potions that taste bad."

_:Have they been like that for long?_: Hirrn asked Shadowflame. _:Because that is not normal.:_

"Backlash," Shadowflame said as the rest of the group filtered into the hall.

Michael noticed that both Kit and Velaryn were the same dirt encrusted and gore spattered grey as Giff; the uniforms of their respective Heralds not looking much better. Tarii appeared to be missing over half of the feathers from her head and neck, and was limping badly, although her staggering gait could have been because Goldleaf appeared to be using her as a mobile crutch. Melli and the other dyheli looked as chewed on as Hirrn, and Rainfox and Krii looked like they'd been trampled by whatever got the dyheli.

"Kernos wept," Yaska muttered as he slid from Velaryn's back. "I think I'm going to be sick. What _is_ that?"

_:Neither of them are showing symptoms of backlash severe enough to warrant that kind of dysphoria.:_ Michael's attention was dragged back to Hirrn. _:Now _you_ for example, Miss Adept Mage—_:

"It was the only way," Shadowflame retorted gruffly. "And it wasn't entirely my idea."

"No," Venni said. "We know. You heard—?"

"It was hard to miss."

Which was when Michael realised that, at some point, Datti's Bell had stopped. "We can't forget her," he said stupidly, wondering at the words even as he said them.

"We won't."

Michael blinked up at Venni as she leaned down over Kit's shoulder to brush her fingers across the top of his hair.

_:Venni, if you try to walk or bear weight on that broken ankle I just spent valuable energy knitting back together, I shall be very upset.:_

"Haven's forfend," Venni said. "I think Michael's reacting to what we're sensing."

_:Oh?_: Hirrn said, which saved Michael having to ask.

"Look at the mages in this little party," Venni said dryly. "I'm sweating chips of ice; Yaska's about three heartbeats from decorating the floor; Rainfox—"

"Rainfox is following in Yaska's footsteps," the Tayledras mage announced in a muffled voice, sagging against Melli's withers.

_:Not on me, thank you.:_

"And I am so over-extended, I couldn't sense the approach of the next Cataclysm," Shadowflame finished. "Which means that it's the other half of the reason we're here. Any ideas where we start looking? I'm afraid the Blood-mage is dust and all over the room."

Rainfox and Yaska both made gagging sounds.

"Thanksss forrr that inforrrmation," Tarii grumped as she sat heavily, using one foreclaw to push Goldleaf inexorably to a sitting position. "you have at leassst half a concusssion that Hirrrn could not fix. Ssit down, parrrtnerr."

_:There.:_

"I believe you are right, Kit," Venni pointed in the direction that her Companion was indicating with her nose.

Yaska squinted at them then at the pile of rubble they were indicating. "Whatever's in there is certainly playing merry cob with my Sight."

"Michael."

He focused blearily on Venni, who was now looking back at him. "I know you feel like hoof-parings, but you're the only one who can do this bit."

Michael sighed. "'kay," he agreed muzzily, cursing to himself as he tried to lever himself upright and the world tipped alarmingly sideways.

Giff lurched to his feet and half-dragged Michael upright by the back of his tunic-thing. The number of times today that he'd been hauled around like that, Michael was surprised that his clothing was still in one piece.

The sound of seams popping and a sudden coolness of air down Michael's back was probably the kind of poetic irony that Michael would appreciate a hell of a lot more after chugging a dose dose of the local equivalent of Excedrin extra-strength and sleeping for a week.

_:Um.:_

"Don' worry." Michael half turned and patted the first bit of Giff that came to hand. That turned out to be his nose, and Giff gave him a slightly startled look before stepping closer.

_:I'm right here with you, Chosen.:_

"For the love of the Star-Eyed, _don't_ try and help him dig," Shadowflame said as Michael, shadowed by Giff, wobbled over to the mound of rubble. Thankfully, if seemed to be comprised of mainly small fragments and copious quantities of rock dust.

"Quite," Rainfox put in. "If it's making us natives feel like this just being in the same room as it, the gods only know what'll happen if one of us _touches_ the blasted thing."

"Not filling me wit' confidence," Michael muttered as he sagged to his much abused knees and began reluctantly picking up bits of rubble and tossing them aside.

"All of our tests back in Haven showed us that you should be perfectly safe touching it," Venni reassured him. "It is from the same place as you, so there should be no adverse energy conjunctions."

Michael kept his opinion on the number of 'shoulds'-both implied and actual—in that speech. He continued picking away at the rubble pile, coughing slightly as tendrils of dust rose upwards.

"What do I do with it when I've found it?"

_:Yes, I am not keen to have my Chosen walking around with the power to unleash another Cataclysm clutched to his breast until the end of days.:_

Michael turned to stare incredulously up at Giff. "Not helping. and—breast? Seriously?"

_:Sorry.:_

"Hence why the finest mages in Haven—bar us—expended themselves making the box," Venni said severely. "We're not just making this up as we go."

"You could have fooled me." Tarii went from sitting to laying with a thump and gave Venni a jaundiced look. "Afterrr all, the coussinss alwayss ssay that 'no plan lasstss passt the firrsst engagement.' The besst courrsse of action isss therreforre to make it up asss you go."

"Which attitude is why _some_ of us needed Hirrn to ensure that all our blood stayed inside more than others."

"Husssh, Goldleaf."

Michael ignored the two Silvers as they devolved into a whispered argument in Kaled'a'in, and shook his head slightly in a vain attempt to dispel the black sparkles that the headache from hell was now seeing fit to drag across his vision.

"Dinda, do you have the box?" Venni asked.

_:Yes,_: the dyheli replied. _:Padded as it is, it's still digging into my back, so I've not lost it.:_

"Rainfox, give me a hand," Yaska asked as he sidled from Velaryn's side to Dinda's. "Venni, if you try and dismount now, no-one here will be willing, inclined or _able_ to get you back in the saddle."

_:And I shall be very upset,_: Hirrn reiterated. Michael caught the glare the kyree was directing at Venni and winced. How Venni could even open her mouth and _think_ of arguing back was utterly beyond him.

Michael paused in the act of brushing away some dust. "I, uh, think I've found something. It looks like silk." A bit more cautious brushing. "With markings on it. I, uh—" Michael tried not to think about how the indistinct markings were the exact same colour as old blood.

_:It looks like a pouch,_: Giff added, head looming over Michael's right shoulder. _:And looking at it feels like someone's pulling my brain out my nose.:_

Michael nudged Giff's chin with a raised shoulder. "So, m' headache's actually _yours?_"

_:Maybe? Sorry.:_ Giff huffed out a sigh and turned his mournful gaze on Yaska and Rainfox, who had approached the (rather smaller) mound of rubble from the opposite side and were pulling grey silk wrappings away from a metal box that was about the size of a shoebox.

Michael cleared his throat. "What's that?"

Rainfox traced some of the intricate etching that covered every surface of the box. "Containment for that Blood-mage's devilry," she said. "Re-purposed from a long-distance teleson amplifier."

It had been a while since Michael's inner dyheli dictionary had been put to the text, but it rose to the occasion and equated that kind of teleson to a cellphone with 1980s levels of mobility.

"So...?"

"So you just need to pick up the battery and put it in here." Yaska removed the lid from the box, revealing it to be filled with bright blue silk heavily embroidered with patterns in thick silver thread. He kept hold of the lid as Rainfox carefully unfolded the silk until there was an obvious depression in which to drop the battery.

Michael steeled himself and reached out to pick up one corner of the red silk bag. He singularly failed to burst into flame or die horribly, which had to be about the first thing that had gone right today.

"Do I just lob the whole thing in?"

"Lob?" Shadowflame queried, the tone of her voice making it clear what her expression would be if Michael turned around to look.

_:Oh, Chosen.:_

Venni cleared her throat. "If you'd just upend the pouch over the box. We don't want to risk whatever spells are on that pouch interfering with ours."

_:Going 'boom!' would be the perfect end to the day,_: Hirrn sniffed. _:Venni, I am serious about chewing off something vital if you get off Kit's back. Less _leaning_, please.:_

Michael sighed and tried to focus his eyes on the snarled cord that was knotting the top of the pouch shut. "Does anyone have a knife?" he asked. "Hey—" Michael twitched as his fingers brushed across a particularly crusty looking symbol on the pouch.

"What?" from several sources, all of them sharp with worry.

"It gave me a static shock," Michael started to say, breaking off with a yelped curse as the silk seemed to twitch all of its own accord and started to crumble into rotten fragments.

"Don't drop it!" Rainfox exclaimed, her eyes widening with fear. "Goddess only knows what it'll do."

"I'm _trying._" Michael fumbled as the rotten fabric crumbled further, and the dull black-and-copper of the battery was revealed for the first time.

The mages and Companions recoiled like they had been shot, twisting sideways to cover their faces, or scrambling backwards with discordant clattering of hooves.

The sudden lack of Giff's presence at his back made Michael start and instinctively swing around to check that his Companion was okay. He missed the last of the pouch turning back to dust and running between his fingers, only realising his mistake when cold numbness clutched at his hands and raced up his arms.

Michael gasped out a curse and jerked his attention back to his hands.

Which were black.

And gold.

And cold.

And then there was nothing—_:Michael!_:—almost nothing—

Nothing at all.


End file.
